Misfit in Minas Tirith
by Doris the Younger
Summary: Can a girl-who-falls-into-Middle-earth be 'realistic' AND join in the fight against Sauron? Barb Sanderson must help Princess Éowyn carry out a terrible mission in Minas Tirith. Will she ever discover what strange power brought her to this world-and why?
1. There's No Such Thing as a Happy Ending

**Usual disclaimer and thanks:** Nothing is mine, etc., etc. Many thanks to my betas, eekfrenzy and Rose. And many thanks also to my reviewers—I really love reviews!

For those who came in late: this story is a sequel to my story _Misfit in Middle-earth_, which you can find on my profile page. I suggest you read that story first. Take a chance-I promise, this isn't a Mary Sue.

**Chapter 01 There's No Such Thing as a Happy Ending**

_What Has Gone Before..._

Barbarella Sanderson, a graduate student of linguistics, never read _The Lord of the Rings_ and has seen only the first movie. Her mother, a big fantasy and SF fan, wants to take her to _The Two Towers_ on Christmas Day, 2002, but instead Barb is nearly killed in a road accident, blacks out, and wakes up on the plains of Rohan.

Rescued by the Riders of Rohan, our misplaced grad student is brought to Meduseld, where she's taken in by Princess Éowyn as handmaiden, confidante, and ultimately, friend.

Caught up in the troubles of Rohan, Barbarella pulls together a band of earnest lads, grizzled old warriors, and grumpy healing women into an ersatz M.A.S.H. unit at Helm's Deep to save the lives of warriors wounded in the Battle.

_And so it begins..._

The Battle of Helm's Deep had been won. Against all odds, King Théoden's outnumbered warriors had defeated the evil Wizard Saruman's monstrous army of orcs and hirelings. The people of Rohan had prevailed, and just for a few hours, they were pausing to bind up their wounds, to rest, to recuperate, and to rejoice before they went back to Edoras and to, perhaps, a bigger war against the ultimate enemy, Sauron.

But I'm not from Rohan—I'm from Pennsylvania! How was I supposed to know what to do next, when I didn't even know why I was 'beamed into' Middle-earth?

I was sure that the Evenstar necklace my Mom had given me must have had something to do with it, but what?

I was half-asleep and curled up on the bale of hay that I'd commandeered when I was woken by raised voices. Bleary-eyed, I rolled off the haybale and looked around to see what was going on.

Two people were yelling at each other at the edge of the space that my kids and I had cordoned off in the Great Hall as a makeshift 'hospital.' One of them was Merth. She was one of the handful of healers that I'd dragooned into staying 'up top' during the Battle to tend the wounded. The other was a stocky, curly-haired warrior still in the grubby, bloody leather armor he'd worn during the battle. He wasn't wounded, though, so he didn't belong in our hospital.

I headed over to where Merth and the unknown warrior were squabbling in ever-more-audible tones.

"…you were told to go down to the caves and be safe! What were you thinking of, Mother?"

"Of the warriors on the Wall who would need my help!" Merth snapped back with her usual acidity. She's a tough middle-aged woman who doesn't stand for nonsense. "Including you and your brothers, maybe."

Good for Merth! She'd never make Ms. Congeniality but she was absolutely right.

"Ssst!" I hissed at both of them. "Let's keep it quiet around here, okay? There are guys in this place who need their rest."

Both mumbled grudging apologies back at me, but before she shut up, Merth managed to slip in the last word. "Anyway, why are we bickering about this now? The battle is over and done with!"

Curly gave us both an annoyed frown, then wheeled away muttering, "Women! If you want me I will be digging in the Coomb with the other men."

"My eldest boy, Blaec, is just like his father," Merth confided to me as her son stalked off. "He fusses at the worst possible times."

"What are they digging in the Deeping Coomb?" I whispered back. You sack out for just a couple of hours and you lose all track of things.

"Graves. The men are digging two big pits, one for the Elves and one for the eorlingas. It must be done quickly because we leave for Edoras tomorrow."

Two pits. Separate but equal. Right. "Tomorrow? What about our wounded men? What about Fréalof?"

"Guthrun will remain with the men who cannot be moved. I don't know where your boy Fréalof is. That Elf took him, remember?" Merth looked me up and down, then trotted over to a trestle table. She offered me a bundle of cloth when she came back. "As soon as you have a chance, clean up and get rid of that bloody gown. You're our Princess's handmaiden, after all."

'That bloody gown' had been a noblewoman's elegant dress only twenty-four hours before. She was right, though—cleaning up was definitely a good idea. 'Grimy and smelly' had been my Uniform of the Day ever since I'd gotten to Helm's Deep.

But first I had to track down Fréalof. He was one of my kids, and he'd been terribly burned on the Wall by Saruman's fire. I'd handed him to the Elves in the hope that they could heal his burns, but I hadn't intended for Captain Haldir to keep him!

What I needed was somebody to keep a close eye on Haldir and his Elves. Fortunately, I knew exactly who I wanted for the job. It was time for me to hunt down the rest of the kids who'd worked for me during the Battle of Helm's Deep.

When I headed out of the Great Hall it was nearly dusk and big black thunderclouds were filling the eastern sky, but the Inner Court was crowded with people preparing to go back to Edoras. I soon ran into Princess Éowyn, who—unlike me—had changed into clean clothes. When had she found time to do that? Her new outfit was a good choice for travel—the leather vest and brown riding skirt could absorb a multitude of stains.

"Barbarella! Good, you are finally awake! And just in time—much needs to be done."

"Yeah, right," I sighed. "I'm awake and up now—up and ready for action."

Yeah, sure I was. Whether or not I was 'up' and ready for action, Éowyn certainly was. Her face had that 'warrior princess' look to it and her eyes were sparkling excitedly.

"Gandalf is riding out at moonrise to confront the Wizard Saruman in his lair," she told me. "A company has been chosen to ride with him and King Théoden—Lord Aragorn and his two comrades, my brother Éomer and a few of his best Riders—and finally, you and me."

My first thought was "Great, Éowyn finally got picked for the team." But— "Ummm…I'm not much of a horsewoman. Are you sure you want me to ride along with you?"

Éowyn laughed. "No, Barbarella, it is the other way around—I want to ride along with **you**. Gandalf told me that he wants you to be present when he parleys with Saruman."

Gandalf wanted me to come along? Why? But I had to admit, the idea had appeal. From the moment I'd set foot in Middle-earth, Saruman had been at the bottom of every bad thing that had happened around me. Prince Théodred's terrible death. The orc ambush of the refugees. And of course, the whole bloody Battle of Helm's Deep. I wasn't about to pass up a chance to watch Saruman go down.

What else could I say to Éowyn, anyway? "No, Princess, I'm not going to obey you"? This was a feudal society and she was my boss.

The boss-lady must have noticed that I was weakening because she clasped my shoulder and said, "Fear not. Gandalf says that Saruman has been cast down and can do no more harm. Go now and tell the men in the stable to saddle a horse for you, on Princess Éowyn's command."

A horse. What she meant was a warhorse—it's the only kind of horse that they had in the Hornburg. A trained killer on four legs! Well, there was one good thing—if I could survive riding a warhorse all the way to Isengard, merely facing down an evil Wizard at the end of the ride would be a cinch by comparison.

As ordered, I headed off to the stable—and who should I find but the very boys that I'd wanted to see: Wulfhelm, Caedmund, and Faegan, the three young squires in my group of kids. They were darting back and forth with waterbuckets and feed sacks. Of course—those three kids weren't the sort to let their buddies down, and the two official stableboys on our team, poor Fréalof and his brother Elric, certainly weren't going to be able to handle their duties as usual.

I waved my hand in the air. "Wulfhelm!"

Wulfhelm came running up to me. "Yes, Barbarella?"

"I've got a couple of questions. First, do you know where Captain Haldir took Fréalof?"

"Yes, I do. The Elves pitched tents in the Deep for their own wounded. Captain Haldir put Fréalof there with them."

"Okay, good to know. The next thing is, I'm riding out with Princess Éowyn at moonrise as part of the King's company. I need a horse saddled up for me as soon as possible—a gentle one, if there are any. Also, can you find me a saddle that's easier to sit on than those flat things the Riders use?"

Wulfhelm cogitated for a moment and then ran off to the tack room. Eventually he came back lugging a huge leather saddle that reminded me of my days at summer camp.

"Hey, that looks kind of like a Western saddle! I used to ride on those back home-"

"In Rohan they are used by the very old and the sick. And by pregnant women," Wulfhelm said flatly.

"Wait a minute! Cowboys ride on Western saddles—cowboys sure aren't invalids!" No, stifle it, Barbarella. There was no point in arguing with Wulfhelm unless the issue was absolutely critical. Once he got into it, he wouldn't stop until he ran out of breath.

"Well, thanks anyway. This will help me carry out our Princess's orders. And now for the third thing…"

My plan would be even more essential if Haldir intended to keep Fréalof long-term.

"Wulfhelm, I need a boy to carry out a mission of great importance."

Wulfhelm's heavy brows slammed down and he leaned forward intently to catch my every syllable. Hah! I'd snagged him good!

"This boy must be capable of three things. First, he must be able to speak Westron."

"I can—I can speak Westron!" he shouted.

I'd expected that—Wulfhelm was the best scholar of all the kids in my 'company,' and most of the books that I'd seen in Rohan were written in Westron.

"Second, he must be very intelligent and perceptive."

That was a no-brainer. Everyone in Edoras knew that Wulfhelm was smart—especially Wulfhelm.

"Third, he must be able to act with great humility."

Now that might be the dealbreaker. Nobody had ever accused Wulfhelm of being humble!

Wulfhelm squinted at me for a moment as if he was calculating out what I was up to, and then said with a certain tinge of arrogance, "I am capable of acting humble—if it is necessary."

I supposed that would have to do.

"Okay, here's the situation. Haldir promised me that he'd do his best to heal Fréalof. Elves are honorable and I'm sure he'll keep his word—but he doesn't understand mortals. Someone has to be there to tell these Elves what Fréalof needs, and Elric doesn't know Westron. He can't speak to Haldir like you and I can."

Wulfhelm figured out what I was driving at within seconds. You do have to like that about Wulfhelm.

"The Elves are the best healers in Middle-earth, so anything that you can learn from them is more precious than gold. They seem to be close-mouthed, too, but I should think that even an Elf would take pity on a poor humble lad and explain to him what he is doing to heal the terrible injuries of his wounded friend."

For an instant, Wulfhelm's face showed real respect. "That is truly crafty, Barbarella. You're even sneakier than Wormtongue!"

"Gee, thanks!"

"I meant it in a good way."

Wulfhelm tapped his forehead with one finger (that actually is a symbol of respect) and said, "I will carry out your mission—but first I must find you a horse."

While he and the other boys were doing that, I dunked my head in a horsetrough to rinse off my greasy hair, then rubbed everywhere I could reach with a wet rag. Finally I slipped into an empty horse stall and checked out the clothes that Merth had given me—a voluminous one-size-fits-all shift made of homespun wool and a mud-colored felt jumper cinched with leather ties. But they were clean, so I put them on.

I was belting the jumper around the billowing shift when Wulfhelm and Faegan led up a gigantic slate-grey gelding tacked with the saddle that Wulfhelm had found for me. It was no fancy caballero's saddle encrusted with fancy leatherwork and silver conchos—it was basically a plain couch-on-a-horse. The warhorse was giving me a walleyed sneer, but otherwise he seemed to be a professional.

"Garulf's horse is probably your best bet," Wulfhelm said. "Three different men have ridden Hasufel in the past two months and he's caused none of them trouble."

"He's had three riders in two months?" I asked skeptically.

"Two of them were slain by orcs. It was not the horse's fault," Wulfhelm answered shortly. "Get her a box, Faegan. Barbarella will never be able to mount up otherwise."

Faegan dragged over a crate for me to stand on and the two of them shoved me into the big saddle on top of Hasufel—or 'Monstruo', as I nicknamed him in my thoughts.

That beast was an absolute whale!

Once I was mounted it took longer than you might imagine to get ready to roll. First, Wulfhelm had to take Hasufel by the bridle and walk us back and forth through the stable so the horse could get used to me. I really didn't get used to Hasufel but eventually I learned to fake it.

While all this was happening Faegan and Caedmund ran and got me a waterskin, a pouch of bread, and a rind of cheese. This was invaluable later on, because when I finally checked the saddlebag I discovered that the supplies were all for Monstruo, er…Hasufel.

By the time that Wulfhelm led me out to the Great Gates, it was completely dark. Seated on their great Mearas stallions, King Théoden and Gandalf were conversing quietly. Éomer and half a dozen of his men were right behind them—armed, armored, and ready to ride with their King. Finally, just past the statue of Helm Hammerhand, I spotted Princess Éowyn on Windfola next to Lord Aragorn and his friends. Aragorn was still riding Prince Théodred's warhorse Brego and Legolas and Gimli were still sharing a mount.

For a moment I was scared that everyone had been waiting for me, especially when Éowyn called out, "So there you are, Barbarella! I was wondering where you were!"

Gimli saw my embarrassment and interjected gruffly, "That's a pretty big warhorse, lass. Do you really think you can ride a horse that size?"

"If a Dwarf can do it, it can't be that hard,'' I said with a smile.

I wasn't being disrespectful—he likes people to talk to him like that.

Just as the Great Gates were being opened for us, one of Haldir's Elves rode up on a pale grey horse. I couldn't make out the Elf's face in the moonlight, but his mail glittered from the tip of his pointy helmet to the toes of his shiny boots. He announced to Gandalf, "I shall represent Lothlórien in this venture to Isengard."

Gandalf stared at the newcomer Elf for a moment and then said slowly, "I have no need of a bodyguard, Serindë."

"Even so." The Elf's voice was cold, precise—and implacable. Gandalf shrugged and let the matter drop.

Here was somebody who wasn't going to let Gandalf tell him what to do. Unlike me.

What was I doing on this 'venture'? I considered asking Gandalf why he'd wanted me along, but dropped the idea when I realized how useless it would be. Gandalf is like Dumbledore—there's no way he would tell me anything until he was good and ready.

We rode down the Causeway toward the Deeping Coomb, with Gandalf in the lead and Théoden King right behind him. The torchlight from the fortress only extended about fify feet from the Gates—after that I had to let my horse follow the herd. I pointed Hasufel in Windfola's general direction and wound up alongside Princess Éowyn. It felt much safer to ride next to Éowyn.

Once my eyes adjusted to the dark I could see a little better, but even by moonlight the Deeping Coomb was really gloomy. Dark, dark, darksome. Creepy, too. There were shadows looming at us from all over the Coomb. And rustling.

"Trees!" Éowyn gasped incredulously. "This cannot be—I see trees on the Deeping Coomb!"

I peered into the shadows and saw that she was right. Sometime after the Battle of Helm's Deep, a forest had walked out onto the empty floodplain of the Deeping Stream. Birnam Wood had come to Dunsinane.

A forest…walking. Now what did that remind me of?

"Ents," I said thoughtfully. "It looks like we've got Ents."

Éowyn wheeled to stare at me, fascinated and frightened at once. "What are Ents? Are they creatures that you have read about in your studies?"

Wracking my brain, I finally came up with, "Ummm. Ents are supposed to be sentient trees. Spirits of the wood, capable of both fighting and speaking."

And she passed the word all down the line! I was so embarrassed! But as it turned out, I was right.

Since the only _Lord of the Rings_ movie I'd ever seen was _Fellowship_, you may be wondering—where had I gotten this information? Let me say three things: High school. Boy friend. Dungeons & Dragons.

It's nice to have the reputation of a scholar. It's even nicer when you're able to live up to it.

I hadn't read Tolkien's books and I'm not a fan like my Mom, but I'd watched my share of sci-fi movies and I'd read my share of popular novels—even fantasy novels. _The Lord of the Rings_ is the taproot for most of the 20th century's fantasy and half of its SF. Like it or not, I'd been soaking in it.


	2. Off to See the Wizard

**Usual disclaimer and thanks:** Nothing is mine, etc., etc.

Thanks to my betas, eekfrenzy and Rose—and thanks also to my reviewers. Reviews are my only reward. I like them a lot.

Wow! One chapter and five reviewers. As the story goes on you'll notice more and more changes caused by the actions of Barbarella. Who notices the the ones that have already shown up?

**Chapter 02 Off to See the Wizard**

As we headed down the Causeway, the moon was about three-quarters full and there were no clouds. I could still see only the silhouettes of most of my companions, but I could make out Éowyn's face, since she was riding at my side. It was a quiet night with very little wind—which was no blessing, because the Deeping Coomb smelled really nasty. It had been a battlefield only a few hours before.

I could recognize the scent of every body fluid I'd encountered in a night in a field hospital, but there was also a foul acrid odor that I couldn't identify at first. Whatever it was, it wasn't explosives. A rocket had exploded a few yards from me on the night of the battle, and it didn't smell like that. Then Hasufel stomped down hard on a big lump in front of us and I realized that it was the stink of orc.

At that moment I decided to breathe through my mouth until we reached the real forest.

We were making good speed for a midnight ride. In the time it took my backside to go numb, we had left Helm's Deep behind and were heading northwest. Éowyn told me that we were entering the Gap of Rohan, which is a grassland valley between the gigantic Thrihyrnes and the last peak of the equally massive Misty Mountains. According to Éowyn there are no usable mountain passes for hundreds of miles in either direction, so the Gap of Rohan has been a natural East-West invasion route for centuries.

We weren't supposed to be making noise, but Éowyn dropped a few words in my ear from time to time about what was going on. Saruman had been defeated, but Gandalf still wanted to speak with him. The White Wizard had been deep in the counsels of the enemy and might be able to give us important intel, so we were riding to his fortress Isengard. Although this ancient stronghold was supposed to be impregnable, it had been broken somehow by Gandalf's allies.

After awhile Éowyn moved up to the front of the line to ride with Lord Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli. For a second it made me twinge that I wasn't one of the Cool Kids, but then I said to myself, "Duh, handmaiden," and shrugged it off. Realistically, the middle of the group was the safest place for me. I had warriors on all sides to protect me, and if I fell off my horse, one of them would ride by and pick me up.

A little later there was a 'clop clop clop' as a rider on a pale grey horse moved up to my left. It was our Lothlórien representative, Serindë. The Elf's helmet still glittered in the moonlight but the rest of his armor was concealed by a long flowing cape the color of a cocoon. At first I assumed that he would pass me by but instead he had his horse match Hasufel's speed so that we were riding side-by-side. That was a surprise.

What followed was even more startling.

"Do you still have my mirror?" the Elf asked me in the Elvish tongue.

There was only one mirror that he could possibly be referring to. When I was stumbling around in the Deep on the night of the Battle, an Elf had given me a glowing magic mirror. This had to be that Elf, and I hadn't even recognized him! Now I'm not the kind of person who says, "Those people all look alike," but truth to tell, Lothlórien Elves do look very similar, and besides, it had been dark down there.

"Yes, it's still in my belt pouch. I can give it back to you—"

"Has your night vision improved so much, then?" His seemingly-innocent question had a certain sting.

"Uh…no."

"Keep it, then. You need all the help you can get."

True or not, that definitely stung a little bit. But I was curious, so I asked, "It's an enchanted mirror, isn't it? Does elven magic make it glow?"

"Elven magic? Do you mortals think that everything Elves do is magical? The mirror was made by Elves, certainly. It was fashioned in Gondolin, the fairest Elven city ever built in Middle-earth."

"Gondolin? I thought that all of you archers came from Lothlórien."

"Lothlórien became my home after Gondolin, my birthplace, was destroyed in the First Age by Sauron's Master, our Great Enemy Melkur." For the first time in the conversation I heard emotion in the Elf's voice—a thread of suppressed rage.

We rode forward for quite a while in cold silence. Then I heard Serindë singing—faintly—a song in yet another elven tongue. Compared to regular Elvish the language sounded archaic, like Latin compared to French. But I could still understand it, due to my own translation enchantment:

_I shall never forget thee, O Gondolin, nor the dear ones I have lost.  
May I never cease to mourn, may my spirit not pass over Sea  
Until I have struck a blow triumphant  
Against the abominable ones, thy murderers._

I considered that for a few seconds, then asked, "The Battle of Helm's Deep doesn't count?"

The cold-eyed Elf warrior actually looked shocked. "How did you learn the Ancient Tongue, the High Speech?"

What could I say? "Magic."

With regal dignity, Serindë said, "Saruman was once a great Wizard, but he is nothing now but Sauron's lackey. A victory over one such as him is ash in my mouth."

I hadn't expected such candor from an Elf.

"In that case, I suppose you'll soon be heading off to Gondor."

Serindë gave me a sharp look. "Why do you say so?"

"Surely it's obvious that the next great battle against the Enemy will be fought at Minas Tirith."

This particular prediction came less from my recollection of _The Lord of the Rings_ and more from my knowledge of dramatic foreshadowing. Minas Tirith was the city that poor Boromir kept bringing up in the first movie so it had to be the last bulwark of resistance against Sauron in the finale.

Serindë's steel-blue eyes were thoughtful as he silently dropped back down the line of riders,. Watching him leave, I said to myself, "Well, that's the last conversation I'll ever have with him."

Sometimes you're willing to tell secrets to a stranger that you'd never tell a friend—because you know that you'll never have to see that stranger again.

Too bad—I kinda liked Serindë. I think it's probably because he didn't always talk like an epic.

So we traveled on and we traveled on and Hasufel didn't eat me after all. About an hour or so before dawn, a thick grey mist came up out of the west. Even using my magic mirror I was barely able to see past Hasufel's nose—I have no idea how the horse kept going. It was a real pea-souper fog, clammy and cold. Dewdrops were condensing on my hair and running down my neck. Brrr….

Although the mist was blinding me, every sound around me was crystal clear. I could hear the sound of our horses' hooves, occasional coughs and clangs from the men around me, and birdcalls and morning trills as we got closer and closer to dawn.

Then I heard an eerie howling from the direction we were heading. It was wolves!

I'd heard wolf howls before—in movies and in zoos. I'd even heard wolves howling one night outside a vacation lodge at Yellowstone. But this time I was on the outside myself, and so were the wolves.

Just as I was getting really scared, a hulking form barrelled toward me through the fog. Without thinking, I screamed.

It was Éomer on his favorite warhorse Firefoot!

Of course everyone had heard me shriek. It was massively embarrassing, but at least in all that mist I didn't have to see the expressions on their faces. Éomer instantly grabbed Hasufel's bridle so I wouldn't gallop off in a panic.

Once he figured I'd cooled down, Éomer dropped the reins and rode alongside me. This was the first time I'd seen Éowyn's brother fully armored in helmet, cuirass, pauldrons, vambraces, mail skirt, and greaves. I began to understand why I was hearing all that clanking.

"I did not mean to startle you," he said.

"It's all right. We both know I'm no horsewoman."

"This is true."

Thanks a lot. I cleared my throat and asked something that had been bothering me. "If a wolf should attack, how do I get Hasufel to kick it?"

Éomer chuckled grimly "There is no way that you could prevent a warhorse of Rohan from kicking a wolf. His life is as dear to him as yours is to you."

Again with the killer horse. "Okay, good to know."

Even though he had to know I was all calmed down, Éomer still wasn't riding off to rejoin his men. I didn't want to keep him from doing his job, so I said, "I'm fine now. You don't have to stay here to guard me."

"Yes, I do," Éomer retorted. "If wolves or other fell beasts attack us, I do not want my sister risking her life to protect you."

Liability Girl, that was me. After about five minutes of fuming, I figured out a dozen snappy retorts that I could have made to Éomer, but by then it was too late.

By dawn the mist had pretty much cleared off. We'd worked our way into the brushy foothills and eventually found ourselves looking down at the Isen River, which was running south from the Misty Mountains to block our way. You'd think from the size of its channel that the Isen would be a sizeable and swift-flowing river, but right then it was shallow and sluggish.

Something weird was going on. At first I thought that we must have arrived before the annual snowmelt, but when we rode downslope and got closer, I saw stranded pools all the way up the riverbank. The water must have receded quite suddenly.

Gandalf rode up and surveyed the river from the top of an enormous granite rock. "This is a good place to stop and rest, my friends. We shall not ford the Isen just yet."

I slid awkwardly off my horse and hobbled to where Princess Éowyn had dismounted. Unlike me, she's a fine horsewoman, so she was still in great shape. Éowyn turned to me and said, "I have never ridden here before, but I have often heard tales of this place. Below us are the Fords of Isen, a site of many fierce battles fought by our people."

"I think something odd is going on down there. Does anybody know why the water level has fallen?"

Éowyn shook her head. "I asked this of Éomer, but he has no idea either. Look, some of those pools even have fish in them. My brother's Riders are catching them for our breakfast."

Fish for breakfast! That didn't sound bad—but as soon as those guys caught the fish they'd expect the womenfolk to clean and cook them.

A handmaiden's top priority is to make things easier for her Princess, so I quickly suggested, "Hey, Éowyn! Why don't we hunt up a pool of our own so we can sluice off some of the travel-grime?"

"An excellent idea." Éowyn grimaced. "I have not washed above my wrists for days!"

After Éowyn got one of Éomer's men to hold our horses, we went off to find a private bathing pool. A couple of hundred feet upstream we lucked out and discovered a sinkhole filled with water that looked pretty clean. It had a stone bottom and was half-obscured by brush, and moreover, it was within easy yelling distance of the rest of the group in case we needed help.

I went in first to check out the water. Oh, that water was cold! I was out in less than two minutes, and I'm sure I spent half the time clambering in and out of a four-foot-deep sinkhole. Then it was Éowyn's turn to bathe and my turn to keep watch. Settling my dripping-cold body next to the pool, I clutched Prince Théodred's dagger Toothpick in my right hand and tried to tie up my jumper with my left hand.

Just as Éowyn splashed down into the water I heard a rustling in the bushes. Before I could decide what to do with the dagger, Serindë the Invisible Elf stalked out to confront us.

"Hey! We need some privacy around here!" I protested. "Can't you see? The Princess is taking a bath!"

Grabbing the edge of the sinkhole, Éowyn stared up at the Elf without even letting her teeth chatter. It just goes to show, she's a whole lot hardier than I am.

Seemingly oblivious to my embarrassment, the Elf answered blandly, "It is not safe for the two of you to bathe here unprotected. I will stand guard."

Call me prudish, but I didn't like the notion of Princess Éowyn skinny-dipping in front of an Elf. "Could you at least step back and look the other way? It's not right for a man to watch the Princess bathing."

Ignoring my request, Serindë unslung his shortbow and nocked an arrow. "I see no problem, for I am not a man."

I've got a master's degree in linguistics; no Elf was going to tangle me up with semantics. "By 'man' I mean 'a male person', not simply 'a human'."

Serindë's lips quirked smugly. "I understand what you mean. I still say there is no problem."

Whoa! Was that Elf really saying what I thought he was saying? I gave Serindë a quick once-over and decided that 'he' might not be the appropriate pronoun.

As Éowyn's handmaiden, I certainly didn't believe that no woman could be a warrior. Serindë's face was long, stern, and colorless, but whoever said that every woman has to be cute? That stiff glittering scale-mail could easily conceal the curves of an A-cup female gymnast, and what was even more interesting, the hand that clutched that deadly warbow was smaller and better-manicured than mine.

While I was considering the body of evidence, Serindë said flatly, "Yes, I am an Elf-lady."

With one amazing pull-up, Éowyn hauled herself out of the ol' swimming hole and I scrambled to dry her off with a corner of my shift. While I helped Éowyn to dress she asked Serindë, "Are there many shieldmaidens in your company?"

Serindë swiftly scanned the surroundings for enemies—or perhaps for eavesdroppers from our own party, who can say? "No, it is not a common thing. In fact, it is discouraged. But Lady Galadriel could not refuse a warrior's role to me, for I took it to avenge the torment of her own daughter."

"There is a custom in Rohan called the Honor Gift," Éowyn said carefully. "It is a vow to do a great deed in honor of the beloved dead. Is this what you are doing?"

I wouldn't call Serindë chatty, but she did open up a little to Éowyn's question. "Not exactly. I was once a handmaiden to Princess Celebrían—as Barbarella is to you. Many years ago our party was ambushed by orcs as we traveled to Imladris. In this attack many Elf-warriors were slain and my Lady was carried off to be poisoned and tormented. But I did not know how to fight, so the captain slapped my horse and sent me off in a gallop to safety, unable to help my Princess."

Serindë's eyes narrowed to cold blue slits. "I swore that this would never happen again."

"Men praise women for beauty and grace, but rarely for warrior skill—even if we possess it," Éowyn said bitterly. "We can die upon a sword, but few of us are trained to use one."

"My 'warrior skill' tells me that we should return now to the others. Some of Saruman's servants may yet be alive and close enough to attack," Serindë replied bluntly.

When we came back from our chat in the girls' locker room we could smell fish frying. As a matter of fact, the three of us were barely in time to snag our share. All of the fish were nice and brown and perfectly ready to eat, even without the women doing the work.

Aragorn makes a great camp cook.

Just as we finished the last scraps of breakfast, I heard an ominous rumbling from upstream. I jumped up and saw a wall of whitewater barreling down the channel of the Isen. From the excited babble of voices it was clear that none of the Rohirrim had any idea what was going on. Neither did Aragorn, Legolas, or Gimli. As for Gandalf, he simply smiled and said nothing.

This went on for several minutes, but eventually the flood subsided and we were able to pick our way across the fordstones of the Isen. The cold water still came up about stirrup-high, but I figured that if Hasufel was okay with it, I could handle it too.

On the other side of the Isen, a stone road runs north parallel to the river. It was like an old Roman road, except that the stones were sharp and murky-dark and no grass grew around them. Our horses didn't like the feel of those hard stones on their hooves, but the ground on either side was smashed down and mucky, and Gandalf said that we needed to hurry. So we wound up 'following the murky brick road.'

When we finally reached the fortress of Isengard, it was late afternoon. Isengard itself is a deep cup valley at the tip of the Misty Mountains that's surrounded with a gigantic wall of black stone on all sides but the south. It's almost certainly a natural formation that was spruced up slightly by mysterious ancient engineers. Within the black wall there is a tall black tower—Orthanc—that was probably constructed thousands of years ago by those same ancient engineers. I suppose Tolkien was thinking of Orthanc and the Hornburg when he named his second book _The Two Towers._

The only entrance to Isengard was barred by huge iron gates—'was barred' being the operative expression at that point. Much of the south wall was shattered. Its massive stones had been tumbled down and the great metal gates were twisted into giant pretzels.

Two figures were hopping up and down and waving at us from the top of the ruined wall. Dwarfed by that giant structure, they seemed very tiny. When we rode closer I realized that they didn't just **seem** small, they **were** small. We were being greeted by a pair of hobbits!

"Welcome to Isengard!" one of them yelled at us. I nearly had a heart attack until I realized that they were Merry and Pippin, not Frodo and Sam far off course. The Ring Quest was still good to go.

"Pippin! Merry! You young rascals!" Gimli shouted. While Gimli and Legolas engaged in guy-talk with their two hobbit pals, I peered through the remains of the gates at the aftermath of a terrific flood—overturned and splintered buildings, a crumpled metal superstructure and smashed machinery, floating barrels and crates oozing out their contents into stinking puddles. Orthanc loomed over all—a tall black four-pinnacled tower that seemed impervious even to the recent catastrophe.

Something awful had happened to this place, but what?

While I was trying to figure it out, Aragorn and Éomer pulled the two hobbits up behind them and we continued onward into the flooded ruin of Isengard. As we rode forward I overheard the shorter one, Merry, saying something about "Treebeard has taken over management of Isengard."

Treebeard! With a name like that, he had to be an Ent! This was so cool—it would be my very first meeting here in Middle-earth with an alien species. Well, except for the Elves and the Dwarves. And the hobbits.

I refuse to count the orcs.

Since I was looking for something arboreal, my eyes were soon drawn to a great big tree standing in the middle of a pile of rubble. Then the 'tree' opened up bright humanoid eyes and went "HOOM! HOOM!"

Yes! That was Treebeard, all right. Both the Rohirrim and their mounts were a little skittish, but fortunately for me, Hasufel was okay. He must have been infected by my fan-girl attitude. As for Gandalf, he rode up calmly to Treebeard as if the Ent's presence merited no comment. The two of them looked like old friends, and considering those two, I really don't want to imagine how old.

I couldn't make out what Gandalf was saying to Treebeard, but the Ent's booming reply was easy to hear:

_Wood and water, stock and stone, I can master.  
But the Wizard in his tower is for you to handle._

Water and stone. That answered my earlier question—somewhere upstream of the valley of Isengard a big dam must have been broken. By the Ents, no doubt.

I looked up the side of that scary black Tower of Orthanc and asked myself, "If I were an evil Wizard whose back was against the wall, what would I do at this point?"

It seemed to me that this time we were really going to see some wizard-magic.


	3. To the Dark Tower We Came

**Usual disclaimers and thanks**: Nothing is mine, etc., etc.

Thanks to my betas, eekfrenzy and Rose—and thanks also to my reviewers. Reviews are my only reward. I like them a lot!

Those of you who have read the trilogy will notice certain elements of book-verse in this chapter. I'm actually using both versions but my visualizations, of course, are from Peter Jackson's movie.

I appreciate your reviews and I try to answer them whenever I can think of something intelligent to say.

**Chapter 03 To the Dark Tower We Came**

If the decision had been left up to Gandalf, I expect that he would have ridden off all by himself to palaver with Saruman, but Aragorn and the rest of his Fellowship buds weren't about to put up with that. King Théoden wasn't going to stay put either—which meant that Prince Éomer had to ride along. Both hobbits were riding in back of Aragorn and Éomer and doing their best not to be noticed.

Finally Éowyn reminded Gandalf that he'd wanted me to be present when he spoke with Saruman (thanks boss!) so the two of us had to go too. Éomer's Riders could guard the Isengard Gate perfectly well all by themselves, she said. As for Serindë, she simply took her place alongside Gandalf and paid no attention to what the rest of us thought.

The last leg of our journey wasn't long, but we had to ride through treacherous flooded terrain. When we finally reached the Tower of Orthanc, Gandalf rode up boldly almost to the front door before dismounting. Of course the front door was locked and of course it was heavily metal-reinforced. All of the rest of us followed Gandalf's example and stood there with him, staring up uselessly at the upper-story windows.

This, I said to myself, might not be the best idea that Gandalf had ever had. Saruman's Dark Tower doubtlessly possessed all of the basic accoutrements of your standard Fortress of Ultimate Darkness, and we were giving its Wizard a perfect target-rich environment. Saruman wouldn't even need to use sorcery on us—he could just chuck a bowling ball out of one of the top windows.

While I was harrowing myself up, I began to feel a weird vibration on the chewing surfaces of my teeth. At first I thought it was paranoia, then I wondered whether it might be subsonics. It was the kind of sensation that would freak you out if you didn't know what was going on—and frankly, even if you did.

Where could it be coming from?

Before I could figure out an answer, an echoing, mellifluous, English-sounding voice rolled down to us from a fourth or a fifth-floor window. Whoever the speaker was, he must have taken elocution lessons, because even at that distance, every word was perfectly clear.

"Strange is your choice of comrades, Théoden King. Go you now to the Elves for advice? It has ever been said that the counsel of the Elves serves their own interests and not the interests of their questioners. Can we not take counsel together as we once did? Can we not have peace, you and I?"

Squinting into the sun, I couldn't see whether Saruman, the Great and Powerful Wizard, looked that much like Christopher Lee. I could see that his wizard's robes weren't pure white like Gandalf's. They were streaked with many colors and seemed almost psychedelic. Saruman's long hair and beard were pure white though, except for some creepy black strands around his mouth.

Our Mr. Wizard was pretty good at fast-talk, I'll give him that. Adolf Hitler had wowed 'em at the rallies with half of Saruman's spiel and a quarter of his elocution. Fortunately King Théoden wasn't so gullible.

"Counsel?" he bellowed up at the Wizard. "Aye, you would counsel me and mine into the grave—the grave in which my son already lies! It is not peace but vengeance that I seek from you!"

Then Gandalf got into the act. "Saruman! Listen to me—your treachery has cost many lives, but for you there is still hope. You were deep in the enemy's counsel—tell us what you know and redeem yourself."

Saruman stepped forward and raised his hands, and I saw that he really was holding a bowling ball—or at least something round and shiny. "Once again, Gandalf Greyhame, you would buy assistance at a beggar's wage. What pittance did you offer the Halfling when you sent him off to his doom?"

When Pippin heard Saruman sneering at his friend Frodo, he shouted, "You wicked old Wizard!" and would probably have dashed right up to the tower brandishing his little sword if Gandalf hadn't hauled him back. A good thing, too—that door had 'TRAP' written all over it.

"And what of this wretched Ranger?" Saruman continued smoothly and scornfully, as if he hadn't even noticed the reckless 'halfling' who'd wanted to kill him. "What reward did you promise this fool, the failed son of a failed sire, that he should throw away his life in a vain attempt to be crowned King of Gondor?"

Aragorn might be scruffy-looking, but he has the expressionless face of a politician—or a poker player. Even after hearing all that, he refused to react. My hotheaded Princess, however, blew her stack.

"Has not Lord Aragorn defeated you in battle?" she shouted. "How dare you insult a great warrior of the blessed race of Númenor?"

I'll tell you how he dared. Because he was safe in a tower and we weren't!

Saruman leaned out of that tower and sneered down at Éowyn. "The victory does not belong to you, uncouth daughter of Eorl. Go back to the thatched barn you came from and breed dirty brats to roll in the reek with the dogs."

Hey! That was my Princess he was dissing! So I stepped forward myself and yelled up at the old sorcerer with all the withering sarcasm that I could summon.

"You're one to talk, Saruman! The Battle of Helm's Deep was the one fight that you absolutely, positively had to win—and you absolutely, positively lost. I was there, so I can assure you that you probably would have won if you'd just bothered to show up! Congratulations, **LOSER**!"

Bingo! Voldemort the Elder puffed up in a rage like an iridescent frog, and the subsonics kicked up so high that they made my ears ring. "Raddled, greasy little shrew!" he shrieked at me. "You should never have scurried out of the sculleries of Imladris!"

Swiveling around his wizard's staff, he aimed it right at me.

I froze stock-still.

As I stared up stupidly at him, I knew—I absolutely knew—that Saruman was going to shoot that thing at me. He was going to kill me if I didn't dodge, but my muscles wouldn't work. All of a sudden, someone tackled me hard. A wave of heat struck me from behind as I hit the dirt and slid forward about eight feet. Then I heard a sharp 'crack—crack—sizzle' and I smelled burning grass.

Yes, you guessed it—my Princess was shielding me from the sorcery of an evil Wizard with her own body. Éowyn's elbows were digging deep holes into my sides, my chin had kissed the gravel, I was seeing stars, and I felt too squished to even wheeze, "Thank you."

Over the roaring in my ears, I heard Gandalf say sharply, "That was not well done."

To which Serindë replied, "But it is done."

After a little while Éowyn jumped to her feet and hauled me up after her. Gazing back at the place where I'd been standing, she commented tersely, "I see what you meant about Saruman winning."

When I followed her gaze I saw that nothing was left there but a neat little charcoal circle.

Everyone else's attention was focused on the dead body of Saruman. The Wizard had plummeted from the tower to be impaled on the steel teeth of a wheel still turning in the middle of a broken metal mill. One of Serindë's arrows was stuck through his throat.

Even King Théoden and Aragorn seemed shaken by the Wizard's sudden death. I was so sick, so horribly sick of seeing people killed by arrows. Couldn't Gandalf have disintegrated him or something?

Gandalf was scowling angrily at Serindë. "We needed Saruman; we needed him to talk. We have to know where the enemy will strike next."

Serindë's answer was cool. "But surely the next attack will be against Minas Tirith. Where else would the Abominable One strike but the capital of the last kingdom of the Dúnedain?"

Seeing me struggle to pull up my felt jumper—its toggles had ripped off during my slide to 'home plate'—Serindë stepped over and wrapped her elvish cocoon cape around my thin shift. Getting a good, long look at my 'Evenstar' pendant as she did so.

The undercurrents in our group were so thick that you could have cut them with a knife, but even so, King Théoden confronted the Elf-warrior head-on. "What do our Elven allies mean to do if this is so?"

Without the flicker of an eyelash, Serindë dropped a metaphorical gauntlet onto the ground. "The Dark Enemy will not cease to attack the Free Peoples of Middle-earth until we stop him. Lady Galadriel sent us out to fight a war, not a mere skirmish. We shall go to Gondor."

Théoden King was an old man, and tired, and he knew better than the rest of us how tired his people were. But he stood strong and proud as he answered Serindë's challenge, "And so will Rohan."

That settled it—for good or for ill, the forces of Rohan were committed to another great battle.

For good **and** for ill. Théoden's Riders would be needed to save Gondor's bacon, but many of our men were never going to come home. Prince Éomer, warrior supreme though he is, seemed perturbed. He was one of the King's Marshals, after all, and he knew how closely the army of Rohan had skated to the edge of doom at Helm's Deep.

For a second it looked like Gandalf was going to say something, but at the last moment he sliced down his hand in a 'no' gesture and was silent. I wondered what he would have said to the King, if he'd thought that Théoden would be willing to listen to him?

A little later, Éowyn whispered to me, "I mean to ride with my uncle, Barbarella—but I cannot think of a way to convince him."

I couldn't either. My Mom had told me about Dernhelm, but in the cold light of reality, the idea of masquerading as a guy all the way to Gondor really didn't seem doable. Unless you were an Elf, that is.

Leaving Saruman's bleeding corpse to dangle from the broken metal wheel, we rode back the way we'd come. Even for a 'wicked old Wizard' it was horrible that we didn't pull him down and bury him. But we had no time to spare.

When our group rejoined Éomer's Riders at the Gates of Isengard, Pippin and Merry really showed their sterling qualities. Sliding from their perches on Éomer's and Aragorn's saddles, they ran to the spoil they'd scavenged from Saruman's hoard of goodies and managed to convince our band of warlike fire-eaters to dismount and eat dinner.

Even Gandalf succumbed to temptation. It was pretty impressive for an impromptu feast: salt pork and sausages; apples, nuts, and carrots; wax-sealed boxes of biscuits with earthenware jars of blackcurrant jelly, even a barrel of ale.

I didn't want to watch Éomer's crusty scowl the whole time I was eating dinner, so I scooted down the makeshift board table as far from him as I could. Fortunately, he was soon distracted—first by the food and then by warrior shoptalk with the King, Lord Aragorn, and Gandalf.

As the two hobbits bustled about on their self-appointed task of feeding our company, I spared a moment to examine these two members of the famous Fellowship. Their outfits were brightly colored, although somewhat shabby. These hobbits had gone to the wars with fewer clothes than I had! Both sported such a number of bruises, cuts and scrapes that I winced in empathy.

But wait—hadn't Merry and Pippin been taken captive by orcs at the end of the first movie? In that case, it was a miracle they were still alive! In spite of all they'd suffered, the two young men (yes, men! Not children or cute little hobbits) were still gallant enough to smile and joke.

Of course the barrel of ale was soon tapped and flowing; you'd expect that in a party that included Rohirrim. Not to mention Gimli! What really touched me was when Pippin Took came up clutching a dusty glass bottle and asked, "Would you care for some wine, my lady?"

Of course I would—I'd never even seen Middle-earth wine before! Pippin pried out the old cork with a little silver knife and poured red wine into a delicate metal cup, then sat down at my side and filled a tankard for himself out of the same bottle. "I drank some wonderful wines when I was in Rivendell. I suppose you did too, when you were there."

"I'm no connoiseur, but it tastes wonderful. I've never been to Rivendell, though." I felt like Forrest Gump, constantly being PhotoShopped into a place that I'd never been.

"But that old Wizard said that you'd been to Imladris…" Pippin's ears reddened as he remembered the rest of what Saruman had said to me.

"No, I haven't, and I have no idea why Saruman thought so…wait, I do. Gríma Wormtongue must have spun that story to him. Gríma was a traitor who spied for Saruman against the King. I'm sure that it was easy for him to convince a powerful Wizard like Saruman that no mere mortal would would dare do anything important unless somebody noble ordered it."

Pippin laughed merrily. "Like a Quest?"

Loose talk about quests, especially the one that Pippin had been on, wasn't too safe, so I quickly changed the subject. "So, is Rivendell as beautiful as everyone says?"

"Oh, yes, it was lovely! The beautiful songs of the Elves, the wonderful flowers and the colorful tapestries—and best of all, there was always plenty to eat!"

On the other side of the table, the warriors were happily talking about war. I much preferred talking to Pippin Took, somebody who considered 'civilian' a valid lifestyle choice. He's pretty cute, too, if you like 'em short and Scottish. Pippin was nattering about Elves and recipes and I was nodding and agreeing when I looked up and caught Princess Éowyn hiding a smile. What, did she think I was flirting with him?

After our scavenged supper we mounted up and rode back to the Fords of Isen, stopping in the same place we'd rested earlier. Setting up camp took next to no time, largely because we didn't have any camping gear to speak of. (I made a mental note not to let that happen again.) At first I was afraid that I'd freeze during the night and wake with my back killing me, but somehow, Serindë's elven cloak kept me warm as toast and made even the hard ground feel comfortable.

Breaking camp at daybreak, we rode without stopping except to let the horses rest and to eat leftovers. It was about noon when we reached the Thrihyrne Mountains and the mouth of the Deeping Coomb, but we did not return to Helm's Deep. No, we rode straight to Edoras. And we rode. And we rode. And we rode.

When we finally reached Edoras it was after moonset and Meduseld was just as we'd left it. I am delighted to report that Saruman's army of orcs had not even paused to snort in its general direction.

Late as it was, Prince Éomer asked Théoden in a level voice, "What are your orders, my King?"

The King was stripping off his leather gauntlets after a hard day's ride. "Send your men out at dawn to tell my captains to assemble the Muster of Rohan at Dunharrow. I will join my Riders in four days' time and lead them to Gondor."

Éomer must have been worried, but he was a Prince of Rohan, and he would obey the King's command no matter what. Meanwhile, muscles that I couldn't even name were shrieking in protest. I'd ridden almost without letup for over twelve hours. The only reason I'd kept going for the last few hours was that I couldn't convince my horse to stop.

Sliding painfully off Hasufel, I waddled toward the Golden Hall as awkwardly as Frankenstein after a really bad day with the villagers. In a complete violation of the Handmaiden's Code, I ditched Princess Éowyn and retreated to her bedchamber to throw myself onto her soft featherbed.

Éowyn would have to undress herself this time. I was 100% beat.


	4. Girl Talk

**Usual disclaimers and thanks**: Nothing is mine, etc., etc.

Thanks to my betas, eekfrenzy and Rose—and thanks also to my reviewers.

Reviews are my only reward. I like them a lot.

As LadyAiredonelle's review points out, Barbarella sees the hobbits as 'short men' not as 'cute little boys'. That's because she's actually there in the battle zone, not safe in her living room. Think about it—if you were in the middle of a war, and you met two people who'd managed to escape the enemy soldiers who'd nearly killed you a couple of times—I think you'd see them as being pretty heroic.

For those who have not read _The Silmarillion_, Serindë's birthplace of Gondolin was a hidden Elf city that was destroyed by Morgoth in the First Age. Arguably, Serindë is the Mary Sue in this story since she is the one with the secret back story and the amazing combat abilities. But on the other hand, she isn't the main character!

**Chapter 04 Girl Talk**

When I next cracked open my eyelids the room was still dark, but I could see pink in the sky through Éowyn's sitting room window.

Where could Éowyn be? This was her bed, after all—I was just using the handmaiden's side.

Doing my best to ignore my aches and twinges, I pushed myself up from the pillows and shuffled to the window. There was enough light outside for me to make out the deserted courtyard below. The doors of the King's Stable were shut and nobody seemed to be moving around. It had to be nearly dawn.

Then it occurred to me that those pink streaks were in the west, not in the east. It wasn't early morning—it was nearly night. I'd slept for over twelve hours.

What could Princess Éowyn be thinking of me?

Zooming back to the darkened bedroom (and stubbing my toes twice in the process), I shucked off my dirty shift, poured the water in the bedside jug into a basin, and gave myself a quick spit-bath and hair-wash. Then I fumbled around for a clean chemise (that's what they use for lingerie in Rohan) and put it on in pitch darkness.

By that time I was too frazzled to hunt up a candle, but it occurred to me that Serindë's magic light-up mirror was still in my belt pouch. I dug it out and gave myself a good look over.

Even excluding the greenish tinge of my reflection, what the mirror showed was pretty cringe-worthy. A great big scab covered most of my chin, my hair alternated between tangled and bedraggled, and my unplucked eyebrows had turned into thick fuzzy caterpillars.

I really did look like a scullery wench!

Hastily tucking the Evenstar safely out of sight under my chemise's neckline, I ran my fingers over the wardrobe chest until I found my hairbrush, then desperately brushed and brushed and brushed, hoping that by some miracle, my hair would lie down flat and be shiny and elegant like Princess Éowyn's.

As I started on my second hundred strokes, the bedroom door opened and I was hit by the light of a candle.

"I see that you are finally awake." Éowyn had caught me primping!

Setting down the brush, I flinched and faced her. "I'm so, so sorry, Princess. I should have gotten up much earlier—I must have skipped out on a lot of work."

Éowyn looked beautiful in that white satin gown—even if I hadn't been awake to help her put it on. She set down her candle by the bedside and said, "Don't worry about it—I know how hard it is to get used to a full day in the saddle. You should have made sure that Hasufel was stabled, though, before you went off to bed. Seeing to the horse's needs is the duty of every rider."

Chastised, I answered, "I won't screw up like that again. I promise."

Dimpling up, Éowyn remarked, "Of course, you do not have to do all of this horsetending yourself. Many young Riders would be glad to do it for you."

We both knew how that one worked.

Éowyn set down a covered salver on the bedside table and said, "Oh, Barbarella, you missed the party! Théoden King held a great feast to celebrate our victory. I brought something up for you, though. It's what I thought you would like the best—dessert."

I removed the cover on top of the plate to reveal an apple dumpling drizzled with honey, and my stomach suddenly woke up. "You thought right, Éowyn."

As I devoured the dumpling, I asked curiously, "So what happened at the celebration?"

Éowyn started to pull her gown over her head, so of course I set down the plate to help her undress. But she waved me away. "I will do it, your hands are too sticky."

Which was true, since she hadn't brought me a spoon.

After removing her gown, Éowyn knelt and rummaged through the wardrobe chest to find her nightgown. "First the King and his Riders drank a toast to honor our victorious dead. Then there was a great deal more drinking. Finally Legolas the Elf and Gimli the Dwarf started a drinking contest which lasted for some time. Gimli lost—I think that Elf must have a hollow leg."

She hung up her satin gown, then sat on the bed in her chemise and watched me scarf up the dessert she'd brought. "The two halflings, Pippin and Merry, danced for us and sang a song from their homeland. It is called the Shire. Did Pippin speak of their homeland to you?"

"Not really, but I've heard of it before. It sounds like a nice place." No Internet connection, of course—but I was never going to see that again. Like the Amish villages in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania—only not as religious.

A too-innocent expression on her face, Éowyn said casually, "Lord Aragorn told me that Pippin is of noble blood among his own people. He is heir to his father the Thain and a halfling of consequence."

When I realized what she was getting at, I nearly choked on my last bite of dumpling. "Pippin and me? You've got to be kidding."

Éowyn chuckled, then got serious. "Barbarella, I have not seen you smile at a man since my cousin Théodred died. When you looked at Pippin, I saw him as you must have seen him. Truly, he is a courageous young warrior, and both handsome and kind. Although short, of course."

I hadn't considered it before, but the peaceful Shire wouldn't be such a bad place to settle down. "I suppose I could do worse—but let's face it, that Thain father of his will want Pippin to marry a nice hobbitish girl."

I don't really suppose that Éowyn meant for her suggestion to be taken seriously. After a moment of awkward silence, she put on her linen nightgown and slipped under the bedcovers. "Meduseld is quiet now, and tomorrow will be a long day. Perhaps you should come to bed and sleep, if you can."

What, after twelve hours of sack-time?

In spite of that, I took the hint and slid into my side of the bed. Éowyn snuffed out the candle and I pulled the canopy curtains half shut. One of my most important responsibilities as Éowyn's handmaiden was to listen to her talk out her problems and to give her advice when I could. For a while we lay quietly in the dark and I wondered which of her problems she wanted to talk about this time.

Eventually Éowyn spoke. "Today the King's messengers went out to assemble the Muster of Rohan. The King will soon ride to Dunharrow to meet his army, and I will go with him. My uncle will not object if I ride to Dunharrow, but you know that I must go to Gondor too, and you know why."

Yes, I most certainly did. Because Éowyn thought that my 'Second Sight' had shown me that she was destined to slay the Witch-King of Angmar.

It had not been my finest piece of advice.

As Éowyn sat up there was a rustle of bedclothes. "Barbarella, will you come with us as far as the Dunharrow encampment? It is tradition that the women of the court bid farewell there to the men."

"Of course I'm going to come with you! How could you even doubt it?"

"But you are still recovering from the ride to Isengard—and from what happened to you there. You will not find it an easy ride."

"So what? This is War."

It wasn't the ride to Dunharrow that worried me—it was the ride to Minas Tirith. Princess Éowyn would go there—but how could I? I was no rider, let alone a fighter—I could never convince King Théoden to let me tag along. But the thought of being left behind was just unbearable.

Maybe something would come up in Dunharrow.

While I was brooding, Éowyn said in a tense whisper, "I know that I must slay the Witch-King, but it seems impossible. How can a mere mortal defeat a Nazgûl?"

So this was the big problem that she wanted to talk out and get advice on. Strangely enough, I actually had some.

"I can't tell you how to do that, Éowyn—but I can tell you who to ask. Pippin and Merry. They were attacked by Black Riders while Aragorn was taking them to Rivendell. I'm sure that Aragorn did most of the fighting, but both of the hobbits are still alive, which says a lot."

Aragorn himself could have told her much more, but I didn't even bother to suggest it. The man was too stinkin' chivalrous to help Éowyn risk her life that way.

"Take counsel from the little halflings?" Éowyn's voice rose in surprise. "I would never even have considered it. Once again you have given me hope, Barbarella."

In my best prophetic voice, I intoned portentously, "As we say back home, _size…matters…not_."

Éowyn laughed, slid one hand onto my shoulder and promptly fell asleep. As for me, I peeked through a crack between the bedcurtains and saw that the moon had risen. After twelve-plus hours of snooze, I wasn't able to follow Éowyn's example. Besides, I had a lot to think about.

What did I really know—or think that I knew—about what we had to look forward to?

The big fight at Minas Tirith between our guys and Sauron's army would probably include every scary monster that Sauron could cast his eyeball on.

Frodo and Sam would make it to the very top of Mount Doom. Gollum would grab the Ring from Frodo and fall into the volcano, the Ring would melt in the lava, and Sauron would be destroyed.

Sure, I knew that much about the story. I knew that Rosebud was the name of the sled, too.

But I didn't know what the casualty count would be—just that the Good Guys were going to win.

For awhile I twisted and turned as I worried about what the next day would bring. But let's face it, I was exhausted and I still had a major-league sleep debt. So in the end, I did manage to log some Zs.

When I woke up, the stars were growing dim and I could see a line of pink on the eastern horizon. Dawn would come soon. Éowyn, early riser that she is, was already up and gone. As for me, if I stayed in bed any longer, I'd get bedsores. At least my backside didn't ache anymore—much.

Snapping open my elvish compact to light my way to the wardrobe chest, I rummaged inside for clean clothes. Choosing the Outfit of the Day was easy-after everything that had happened at Helm's Deep I had only one gown left! It was made from soft linen the color of spring leaves thrown into a vat and boiled—which was probably how it had been dyed. But it was comfortable and it looked pretty on me.

I dressed quickly, grabbed a couple of winter apples from the sideboard, and snuck downstairs to the still-empty Great Hall. Most of the people in Meduseld were asleep, but I had an errand that needed to be carried out at the earliest opportunity.

Unlatching a side door, I stepped outside and scurried across the dusty courtyard to the King's Stable. The King's Stable doesn't have big stone towers like the Golden Hall but its tall, wood-ribbed walls are definitely imposing, and it's one of the largest buildings in all of Edoras.

The great doors of the King's Stable were closed but not bolted, so I was able to push one aside. A lighted lantern hung next to the doorway so I could see down the shadowy rows of stalls. The ceiling was high and vaulted, as if the place was some kind of equine cathedral, and the stall doors and roof pillars were carved with the symbols of Rohan. Except for the occasional nickering of sleepy horses, the stable was quiet.

An elderly man in peasant's clothing was slowly pushing a barrowload of manure toward me down the center aisle. He finally wheeled his loaded barrow up to me and parked it by the door. "I am Swebert, night stableman in the King's Stable. What are you doing here so early in the morning, Barbarella?"

I'd never heard of Swebert, but he sure knew me. I had to be picking up some notorious street cred in Edoras.

I held up one of the apples I'd brought. "This is for Hasufel, the horse I rode to Isengard."

Swebert squinted at me skeptically, as if wondering whether I could be trusted so close to a warhorse in his stable. Eventually he raised one gnarled hand and pointed down the aisle. "Fourth stall to the left. There's a pine tree symbol carved over the stall. Don't open the stall door, he might kick."

I grabbed a lantern and carefully touched its candle to the one in the lantern by the door, then walked down the aisle to find Hasufel. It was lucky that Swebert had mentioned the pine tree, because it wasn't easy to see over the tall wooden half-doors into the stalls.

When I reached his stall, my noble steed crowded right up to the door and glared at me. Hasufel could always intimidate me. He was a heavy warhorse, wide-backed and fierce, and he had pale blue wall-eyes, too, so his glare seemed almost supernatural.

Setting down the lantern, I gingerly held my apple over the half-door. "Hi Hasufel, I brought you a present."

Hasufel vacuumed up the apple with one flick of his lips and crunched it down with those big teeth of his. Then the big grey gelding stared at me accusingly with those scary blue eyes until I broke down and muttered, "Okay, right. The other apple was for me but you can have it."

Hasufel slurped up the second apple in a nanosecond and I stepped back hastily, feeling like I'd just been strip-searched. Then I headed out, stopping by the tack room to pick up a pair of saddlebags. I knew I'd have to pack clothing for Éowyn as well as for myself. She wouldn't bother to think about the girly stuff.

By the time I got outside I could see the courtyard by the dawn's early light. Many of the serving-folk were already hurrying to work in the Golden Hall.

My next stop was the wash house of Meduseld, where I'd been imprisoned while awaiting trial for slaying the King's Counsellor. That wash house is where I'd first met Aragorn, and it was there that he'd figured out how to keep me from being executed for killing Gríma Wormtongue.

It was in self defense, I swear it!

As I'd expected, the washerwomen were already hard at work—removing clothes from wicker baskets and sorting them, scrubbing out the stone wash troughs, and pouring water into the copper cauldron over the firepit. I schlepped over the damp concrete floor to where the head washerwoman, Bronwyn, was lighting a fire under the cauldron.

"When did the rest of you get back to Edoras?"

Bronwyn straightened up and wiped her hands on her apron. She's a big beefy woman with a square face, sandy hair, and muscular freckled arms. She's also the mother of Breca and Freca, two of 'Barbarella's Kids', the boys who'd served under me at Helm's Deep and before. "Not long before you did—just long enough to put the little ones into bed and start bread rising. We all heard about what happened at Isengard. Did the Wizard Saruman really try to kill you with his sorcery?"

I laughed shakily. "He would have succeeded too, if Princess Éowyn hadn't been so brave. But Rohan won't have to worry about Saruman anymore—he's dead now. Look, I need to ask you something. Did anyone give the washerwomen the gown that I—that I was wearing the night I killed Gríma?"

The reason for this question was practical—if horrible. Gríma had bled all over me that night. If my dress hadn't been washed fairly quickly I didn't need to find it—it was useless.

Bronwyn nodded vigorously. "Oh, yes, I kept it for you. It had to be dyed, though—some of the bloodstains would not come out."

She trotted off and returned with a wicker washbasket. When she unfolded my dress, I saw that it had gone from buttercup-yellow to a dark reddish brown.

I hated to think about the reason why.

"Thanks. Is there any chance you could find me a spare tunic and trousers? The kind my boys wear?"

The trip to Isengard would have been bad enough without having to tuck, tuck, tuck, all the time. Riding a long distance in a skirt is unspeakable—I didn't intend to do it again.

While Bronwyn was finding me some castoff boy's clothes, I put the blood-colored dress in a stringbag and wrapped up a hunk of laundry soap to take along. Trust me—travel dirt doesn't just fall off.

By the time I returned to the Golden Hall it was midmorning. At the Great Door I was confronted with a pitiful sight. Captain Háma had been sorely wounded during the evacuation to Helm's Deep. He had resumed his duties as Doorwarden of Meduseld, but he was carrying out those duties sitting on a wooden stool. With an embroidered cushion on it.

Haleth's Dad still managed to look indomitable, although very pale and weak. He looked up at me (an unusual occurrence for him) and grumbled, "Guthrun the Healer says that I should not stand at my post until I regain my strength. I care not for that, but my son found me a chair and insists that I sit on it."

Haleth, son of Háma, was one of my kids, so I backed him up as a matter of course. "That sounds like good sense. You should save your strength for the bad guys."

No sooner did I finish saying that than the Great Door opened and Haleth appeared—carrying a brass pan piled with slices of smelly fried liver. By then I was so hungry that even liver looked good to me. Almost.

"Here is your breakfast, Father," Haleth said. "Guthrun says you should eat liver to build up your blood."

Without thinking, I blurted out, "Oh, yuck, I hate liver."

Háma made a face, but took the pan anyway. "So do I." He picked up the slices with his fingers and began to eat, all the while scanning the courtyard and the surrounding countryside.

Haleth grinned at me behind his father's back and we both retreated into the Great Hall. Meduseld had finally woken up to a busy day—warriors in battlegear were constantly passing us. As soon as we were out of Háma's earshot I said, "Okay, where can we get some real food?"

Haleth took me to the kitchen, where we sweet-talked the cooks out of venison sausage, hardboiled eggs, and bread slathered with apple butter. Then we picked out a couple of chairs in an alcove and sat down to eat and scheme.

My first question was, "What was happening while I had my nose in Éowyn's pillows?"

According to Haleth, quite a lot. The King's messengers had been sent out to announce the Muster of Rohan to all the Lords of the Holds. Théoden had instructed the Lords to send to Dunharrow not only all of their Riders, but any additional warhorses that they had available. The King would have to mount over five hundred elven archers, or the Elves of Lothlórien would never arrive in Minas Tirith in time to fight.

I suddenly felt scared. Was the King going to take away Hasufel? How could I accompany Princess Éowyn if I didn't have a horse to ride?

Haleth interrupted my spiral of dithering with a question of his own. "Barbarella, I need your advice. As you know, my cousin Alfwine and I have both turned thirteen. We are men now, yet Prince Éomer refuses to take us with him to Dunharrow. What shall we do?"

I was Haleth's captain, in a manner of speaking, so I gave his question my most serious consideration. And my considered answer was, "Look, you've already proven yourselves. Barbarella's Kids saved many lives at the Battle of Helm's Deep—the King himself said so. I know you both want to fight, but I think that you and Alfwine should stay here with your Dad and hold the fort until the King returns. The Riders are all going to Gondor, so Edoras will have no one but you and the footmen to protect it."

"All right, we will do as you say," Haleth agreed grudgingly. I'm sure he would have given me an argument if I hadn't brought up the footmen. I'd been playing dirty—most of the footmen were Northern Cousins, a clan with Dunlending roots that had claimed Gríma Wormtongue as its foremost favorite son. For a boy of Haleth's bloodline, counting on Gríma's kin to defend Edoras was simply unthinkable.

After this was settled, we went back to the kitchen. I bagged what was left of the granola I'd made for the trek to Helm's Deep, and Haleth found a mug and spoon to replace the ones I'd ditched when we'd fled from the orcs. By the time I'd packed my stuff in the saddlebags, we were hearing the sound of horns in the courtyard.


	5. The Ride to Dunharrow

Nothing is mine, etc., etc.

Thanks to my betas, eekfrenzy and Rose—and thanks also to my reviewers.

Reviews are my only reward. I like them a lot.

Sometimes I feel a bit guilty about Barbarella's 'Universal Translator' necklace, because I am trying to write a realistic story, and you could say that it's cheating not to make her learn the language. On the other hand, magic does exist in Middle-earth, her necklace has a secret that is yet to be revealed, and I wanted to jump right into the action. I figure that if it's good enough for Star Trek, it's good enough for me.

There are several fan stories where the heroine does have to learn the language, and by far the funniest take on 'learning the language' that I've read is Larry1710's _Plain Jane In Thirteen Chapters_**. **So far he's written eight; I sure hope he finishes it!

**Chapter 05 The Ride to Dunharrow**

Haleth and I went out to discover that the King was finishing up a proclamation to his gathered people:

"Tonight I shall sleep at the Hold of Dunharrow. In two days' time, the King of the Mark will set out to Gondor with his Riders and we will fight the great battle of our time. Many things shall pass away in this war and maybe the King will not return. Yet I say to you that the spirit of the people of Eorl shall not die."

For a moment I stood there quivering in horror at the thought of what our Riders would have to face, and then it sunk in on me—"Tonight! The King will be leaving in a couple of hours. I've got to get ready!"

Tossing the saddlebags into Haleth's arms, I asked him to run to the King's Stable and saddle Hasufel for me. Then I raced back to Éowyn's room to pack like a maniac.

After a moment's thought, I took off my linen dress and rolled it up to carry with me. I knew it would wrinkle, but I didn't want the best dress I had smelling like horse sweat. Then I changed into the newly-dyed brown workdress and put on the boy's trousers underneath. The tunic I'd keep until later.

Princess Éowyn had more dresses than I did—but not many more. I riffled through the gowns that I'd hung up myself and tried to figure out which one I should pick. That white satin was glorious but it picked up dirt in about five minutes. Her blue linen was practical, but it looked common. On the other hand, the lightweight brown wool was trimmed with real gold and its fabric was dark enough that it wouldn't show stains readily. Yes, that was the ticket. I threw the dress on Éowyn's bed and kept going.

Slippers. Stockings. Chemises. Toothbrushes, soap, lotion, brush and comb. I gave the stack on the bed one last critical look, then slid everything I'd picked into two pillowcases. It would all fit—with room to spare. I've taken enough plane flights that I'm pretty good at estimating hand luggage.

Caught up in her martial fervor, it would never occur to Princess Éowyn that to indicate her high rank in a foreign city she would have to wear a noblewoman's gown and maybe some gold jewelry. Aragorn can dress like a bum and still get respect, but the rules are different for a woman.

Don't blame me. Did I make the world?

I hurried downstairs with my pillowcases and saw that the courtyard was crowded with horses and men. The King and his Riders were already assembled. I was barely in time! Before I completely panicked I looked around and spotted Éowyn. She was on Windfola, of course, and Haleth was right beside her with Hasufel's reins in his hand.

"I'm here!" I yelled breathlessly, then ran up to Hasufel and stuffed my pillowcases into his saddlebags. Hasufel gave what sounded like a snort of disdain as Haleth boosted me into the saddle.

"Wherever did you find so many things to take with you?" Éowyn asked with a laugh.

I didn't bother to say that I'd packed clothing for her. Windfola had full saddlebags too, and I wondered a little about what Éowyn had considered worth packing. But I wasn't too concerned about it—I felt pretty sure that I'd covered the basics.

We rode out about an hour after noon. In the middle of all those warhorses and Riders, Hasufel didn't need instructions; he moved into place right off and kept up his pace without me even tugging on the reins.

After we passed the gates of the palisade I turned back for one last look at Edoras—and saw that underneath the banners of the Great Horse of Rohan and the King's sun symbol, somebody had hoisted up the goat-on-a-mountain flag of Barbarella's Kids. Drogo, one of my littles, had made it out of felt to proclaim that we too had carried out a mission at Helm's Deep.

Our banner was flying up there as proudly as any of the rest! I sure hope that Haleth's Dad didn't chew him out too much for that.

My place in the column turned out to be at the back of the vanguard. I was part of the King's household, so I belonged up front, but I didn't want to look like I was hanging on Princess Éowyn's sleeve. I wasn't crazy about trotting alongside Éomer either. So I fell back next to Gamling and we rode together in silence for a couple of hours.

The ride to Dunharrow was better than the ride to Isengard. For one thing, it was shorter. We were cutting south into the White Mountains up a rocky gorge that was maybe half a mile wide. Riding between evergreens next to a whitewater stream, I could almost close my eyes and imagine that I was back in Colorado, except that the trees were old-growth fir instead of pine and spruce.

I couldn't keep my mouth shut forever, so eventually I asked Gamling, "Why aren't the Riders mustering at Edoras? Wouldn't that be easier than a remote mountain valley?"

As usual, his answer was laconic. "Grass." Not much of a conversational opening.

Every few miles we would ride into a little mountain village and more Riders would join our company. At our third stop (Underharrow, I think it was) the villagers had barrels of ale waiting for us. The village damsels came out, flirting like mad, to fill the drinking horns of our thirsty Riders.

When Hasufel saw that the Riders were dismounting and that all the other horses were being allowed to rest, he trotted right over to a grassy knoll and started to graze without bothering to ask. It looked like we'd be stopping for awhile, so I hoisted myself up off the saddle with the stomach-wrenching vault-dismount that Éowyn had taught me. Hasufel wasn't going anywhere anytime soon, so I walked around to get a look at the place…refill my water-skin…and find a privy. Not necessarily in that order.

Underharrow was a pretty small village, twenty or thirty cottages tops. It had no palisade—I guess the villagers thought that the gorge of the Snowbourne was protection enough. The cottages in Underharrow looked the same as the commoners' homes in Edoras: thatched roofs, clapboard walls, and a horsehead symbol rising up out of the eaves. Kitchen gardens were tucked at the side of every house, and twice I spotted coops of what looked like chickens. Up in the mountains the villagers had to be self-sufficient.

But Underharrow wasn't all practicality. Walking around a shaggy fir tree I discovered a meadow that was absolutely covered with yellow daffodils. In the middle of that meadow, Princess Éowyn and Merry Brandybuck were eating lunch at what looked like a wooden picnic table.

Maybe there would be enough lunch for me! We'd left Edoras so quickly that I'd had no time to pack a box lunch. I jogged over and by the time I reached the table Merry had set me out some hard cheese and a nice hunk of bread, which I accepted gratefully.

This was the first time that I'd run into Merry all day, and I was surprised to see that he was wearing Rohirric armor. Who would have made a full set of stiffened leather armor that would only fit a young boy far from his full growth? His curly light-brown hair and his armor made him look just like a warrior of Rohan—except for his lesser height and his slightly-pointed ears.

"What do you think of the White Mountains, Master Merry?" I inquired of my hobbit benefactor.

Merry shook his head. "I like mountains, or at least I always thought I did. But I like seeing the sky even more. We've been crowded for hours between tall trees and even taller mountains—I have barely seen the blue sky above me."

"Just wait. These mountains are a lot like the Rockies back home. When we get to the Hold of Dunharrow we'll be above the forest and you'll see the sky more clearly than you've ever seen it before."

"I suppose you're right," Merry answered. "A few months ago, Pippin and I were traveling high in the Misty Mountains but the weather was so snowy that often all we could see was clouds."

"Where is your friend Pippin?" I craned my neck to see if I could spot a small hobbit with a fancy waistcoat. "You two seem practically inseparable."

I must have put my foot in it, because Merry's face darkened. "He set out with Gandalf this morning. Pippin got into big trouble last night and Gandalf had to take him away to Minas Tirith."

"What sort of big trouble could a little halfling find for himself in the Golden Hall?" laughed Éowyn.

Merry explained reluctantly, "Do you remember the Seeing Stone that Saruman was holding at Orthanc? After he fell, Pippin fished it out of a pool and gave to Gandalf."

I'd completely forgotten about Saruman's crystal ball. It was lucky that Pippin hadn't.

Merry hesitated for a long moment before he continued. "Last night Pippin's curiosity overcame him. He took the stone and looked into it."

"So what did he see in the palantír?" I demanded.

Merry looked around to make sure we weren't being overheard. "It is not what he saw, but who saw him. The Lidless Eye caught hold of him and Pippin nearly burned before Gandalf could set him free."

Pippin had been attacked by the Enemy in the Golden Hall itself! While Éowyn and I sat openmouthed with shock, Merry pushed himself away from the table and gathered the bread and cheese into his knapsack. "I cannot talk about this any more. It is too dangerous."

"Surely the Eye of the Enemy cannot see into this place," Éowyn protested.

Merry shook his head. "At Caradhras Pass, Saruman sent birds to spy upon us."

Oh yeah, I remembered that. It was in the first movie.

Taking the hint, Éowyn got up from her seat too. "I think that Éomer is gathering the Riders now. Come along, Barbarella, and I will help you to remount."

Hasufel was just where I'd left him—or rather, where he'd left me. After she shoved my behind back into the saddle, Éowyn said softly, "I tried to lead Merry into speaking about the Black Riders, but he did not want to talk about what he saw on his trip to Rohan. Now I understand why. It is terrible that such a small person should be forced to carry so many dangerous secrets."

"He knows too much. If he lets the wrong word slip, he could hurt our chances in this war. I'm sure he's afraid of that. I would be, if I were in his place." As a matter of fact, I **was** in his place—and it sure scared me.

"You may have to come right out and ask him how Aragorn beat a Ringwraith. Sheer shock value ought to be good for something." I settled myself on my now-replete warhorse. "Of course, you'll have to pick a propitious moment."

Just as our column was riding out I noticed a ripple of shiny metal behind us. Haldir's archers were marching into Underharrow just as we were leaving it. Well, that answered one question—I'd been wondering where the Elves were. Considering that they were traveling on foot, they were making pretty good time. Of course our horses had been pulled down to a walk in the thick fir forest, so we weren't much competition.

Peering back, I wasn't able to see Serindë in that mass of Elves—or maybe I did see her and I didn't recognize her. It was too bad that she wasn't riding with us—it would have been fun to have somebody to snark at.

Hey, how do you think that Legolas and Gimli managed to pass the time?

It took another couple of hours to reach the camp of the Muster. Dunharrow had grass, all right. Not lush Kentucky bluegrass, of course, but plenty of scrappy mountain grasses and wildflowers still in their first spring succulence. There was sparkling cold mountain water too, fresh from the winter snowmelt.

Dozens and dozens of pup tents had been pitched in this valley of the Snowbourne by the Riders who had already arrived. It was like a Boy Scout jamboree—only with swords and armor.

When we rode in, all the warriors clanked to their feet and cheered. "The King of the Mark is here! Théoden King! Théoden King!" Somebody blew a horn, and the cup of the valley magnified the sound until the very mountains seemed to echo. Théoden King straightened up on his horse Snowmane and waved to his subjects. He looked as proud and happy then as I'd ever seen him.

After that it was time for dinner, right?

Wrong.

Those of us in the King's party had further still to go. On the far side of the valley there was a tall basalt cliff, and at its very top was a lofty plateau. That plateau was the Hold of Dunharrow, and that is where we were going.

As I rode closer to the cliffside, I saw a switchback road that led up to the summit. It was wide enough for two warhorses to walk side by side—assuming that they were reasonably friendly with each other. Climbing a mountain on top of a horse is not my idea of fun, but it was like riding up to the first big hill of a roller coaster—by that time it was far too late to get off.

I was surprised but pleased when Aragorn guided his horse Brego alongside me and positioned himself so that I was the one riding next to the cliff wall. I guess it shouldn't have surprised me—it's standard practice with trail newbies. But Aragorn doesn't much resemble a trail guide.

Our two mounts scoped each other out pretty quickly, flicking their ears at each other and snuffling. I could just imagine what Hasufel was saying to Brego: "Yeah, my rider's an idiot, but she has nice apples."

I was going to chat up Aragorn and see if I could get him to talk Merry into confiding in Éowyn, but Aragorn wound up breaking the conversational ice first.

"So, Barbarella, do these mountains remind you of Penn's Woods?"

From Merry's lips to Aragorn's ears in only a few hours. Not much missed the Phantom Ranger, that was for certain.

Describing the geography of the two states I'd lived in was essentially useless, but we were stuck on a trail together and had nothing better to do but talk until we reached the top. "Not really, the Blue Mountains of Penn's Woods are considerably lower in elevation. What these mountains remind me of is the Rocky Mountains of Colorado, where I went to school. I don't think the Rockies are quite as tall as these, but many of them stay snow-capped all year."

Aragorn smiled wryly. "I have traveled longer and farther than any man I know, but it appears that you have been to many lands that I have never seen—or even heard of. Someday you must tell me about them."

"Sure, any time you have a spare day with nothing better to do."

We shared a sardonic laugh at that ridiculous idea.

At the end of the first hairpin curve we were faced by an ancient stone statue that overlooked the path. It was so worn that I could barely make out its features, but it reminded me of a big-bellied Venus of Dusseldorf, right down to its tiny arms.

"Who is she?" I asked Aragorn, my designated expert in All Things Middle-earthian.

"She? These statues are not considered to be female, although I can see why you would think so. This is one of the Pukel-Men. No one knows their significance, but most people believe that they were crafted by the Men of the Mountains. Some say they were shaped by a race older still that is now lost even to legend."

"Who were the Men of the Mountains? What happened to them?"

"They are long dead. Early in the Third Age, the men of Gondor claimed this land, and when they retreated the Dunlendings moved in. Finally the Steward of Gondor granted this area to the sons of Eorl, who fought many fierce battles against the Dunlendings. It was cleared of Dunlendings barely a century ago."

"Cleared of them," as if they were weeds. It hurt my heart to hear Aragorn say that. The Dunlendings were no pals of mine—in fact, they'd recently fought a battle against my friends—but I could certainly understand why it had been so easy for Saruman to recruit them.

It hurt my heart, but I wasn't astounded. Why should I be? Clearing out the indigenous population is something that everybody does.

Aragorn studied my face intently. "What is wrong, Barbarella? You look troubled."

"Nothing, really. I was just thinking how much this place is like home."

When we arrived at the top of the plateau, I discovered that the Hold of Dunharrow is basically a high-altitude meadow called the Firienfeld that's crammed between two gigantic mountains, Irensaga and the Starkhorn. To the south, the Firienfeld peters out into a little spruce wood, the Dimholt, which abuts a third superpeak—the Dwimerborg, or Haunted Mountain.

The Hold has no castle or any other permanent buildings, so the men had set up a great cloth pavilion for the King, a row of smaller but still goodish-sized tents for his court, and a circle of lean-tos for the skilled craftsmen essential to medieval war—the smith, the farrier, the saddler, and so on.

At the time I didn't care about these details. I was looking forward to getting off Hasufel and calling it a day. One more ride wasn't going to kill me but my backside and thighs were still aching from the trip to Isengard. Aragorn, of course, had zoomed off to locate Legolas and Gimli. I dismounted all by myself, then hobbled around until I found Éowyn, who had already earmarked one of the goodish-sized tents.

"Hi Éowyn, what do I need to do now?"

Éowyn was stowing her saddlebags inside the tent. She gave me a smile and said, "Now you need to unsaddle your horse at the paddock, brush and feed him, then store your tack out of the weather. I am sure you remember how to unsaddle and curry a horse. After that you can think about your own dinner."

"Feed him? But…but I thought we came here for the grass!"

"For the grass, yes, but every evening the warhorses of Rohan are also fed special cakes to give them added strength. If you did not bring any of these cakes with you then you must request some from Théoden King's horsemaster. I have brought a second brush which you can use," she said in a kind but firm voice.

You don't disobey a Princess. Without a word, I took the brush from Princess Éowyn and went off to unsaddle Hasufel. I was definitely getting some tough love just then.

By the time I finished all of these tasks it was dark. A big fire was crackling in a firepit near the King's pavilion and some men were roasting something on a spit. When I went over, I discovered that the 'something' was a whole pig. I got myself a platter of pork and some sourdough biscuits, sat down on a convenient rock, and ate my dinner—finally. I felt like I'd walked into a scene from _Rawhide_.

I didn't see Éowyn until much later, when I went back to our tent to sleep. She told me that she'd been talking with Merry, but didn't tell me what he'd said. I was too tired to pay much attention anyway.

Once again, Serindë's elven cloak was amazingly warm and soft and comfortable—but at that point, I would have slept soundly on pointy rocks.


	6. Valley of the Shadow

**Usual disclaimers and thanks**: Nothing is mine, etc., etc.

Thanks to my betas, eekfrenzy and Rose—and thanks also to my reviewers.

Reviews are my only reward. I like them a lot.

Since I try to indicate the language that people are speaking in the body of the story and not with italics or other diacritics, here's a quick gloss of who knows what:

The Rohirrim speak Rohirric; the royal family also speaks Westron.

Elves speak Sindarin (which Barb calls 'Elvish') and Quenya (which she calls 'High Elvish'.) The chatty ones also know Westron.

Aragorn (and some of his Rangers) know Westron, Sindarin, Quenya, and Rohirric.

Hobbits and Gondorians speak in slightly different dialects of Westron.

Barbarella can communicate in any language.

Nobody in this story knows parsel-tongue.

**Chapter 06 Valley of the Shadow**

The next morning I got up at the crack of dawn—partly because my thighs were still aching and partly because a passel o' buckaroos was clomping around noisily right in front of our tent. I dressed hastily and scooped up some leftovers for breakfast, then headed off with my stringbag to the smithy.

Speaking as a native of a technological era, that smithy didn't look like the sort of place where you'd actually be able to repair something. All that the smith had to work with was a crude brick oven, an iron anvil, and a small set of hammers and other tools.

The Dunharrow smith was a middleaged man with receding brownish hair and a hawk nose. He was wearing the standard peasant's wool tunic and a leather apron, and his face was unfamiliar to me. He'd probably come from one of the villages of Harrowdale to help out with the Muster.

Early though it was, the smith was already flushed from the heat of the forge. As I came up to him, he stared at me uncertainly. "You be the Princess Éowyn's handmaiden, yes? What does the Princess want?"

It was kind of nice for a change to run into somebody who knew me only by my job title, not as 'Gríma's Bane' or 'Freak of the Month.' What I told him was, "I need a middle-sized vat of hot water."

After a bit of back-and-forth, Edlun—that was his name—brought out a quenching tub and filled it with hot water. I hauled out my chunk of laundry soap and all the dirty clothes that I could find in Éowyn's tent and started to scrub.

Doing laundry wasn't part of my usual job description, but I knew—even if nobody else did—that Éowyn intended to ride to Minas Tirith, not back to Edoras. I was going to wash whatever clothes I could, whenever I could. A day without clean underwear is like a day without sunshine.

As it worked out, washing clothes was the best task I could have chosen for that morning, because a little later on Prince Éomer came swaggering by the smithy, saw what I was doing, and mumbled diffidently, "Would you be willing to…"

Flashing my pearly whites at him, I answered, "Sure!" and mended a couple of bridges with Éowyn's disdainful brother at the small cost of washing his socks and undies.

I had to be careful about splashing, because that morning I'd put on my green linen dress. Everything else went into the wash! But wearing my good dress turned out okay, because by the time I finished, Théoden King and his court were sitting down to the mid-day meal.

When I heard a horn call I went over to see what was going on, and discovered that a row of trestle tables covered with elegant embroidered tablecloths had been set up next to the King's pavilion. King Théoden was sitting at the first table, with Prince Éomer at his right hand. Aragorn and his friends Legolas and Gimli were on his left. I didn't see Gandalf. The King's captains were all positioned according to their rank, which made everyone's status at court painfully obvious.

Sometime, somebody needed to explain to the King of Rohan about the principle of the Round Table.

Seeing that meal really brought home to me what a lap of luxury I'd been born into. The King and his men had been given the finest feast that wartime conditions in Rohan would permit: fried fish and sausages, three different cheeses, wheat bread, honey and preserves, dried apples and nuts. But this was early March in the high country, so even at the King's table there were no—zip—nada—fresh fruits or vegetables.

I, of course, was supposed to sit with Éowyn, my Princess and boss. Looking around, I finally spotted her at the opposite side of the table from Théoden King, all the way down at the far end. I didn't much care for the symbolism of that. But wait—Merry Brandybuck was sitting beside her. As I slid in next to Éowyn I reassured myself that they couldn't both be in the doghouse. Both of them looked pretty closemouthed and dour, though. Merry's wooden trencher was piled high with food, but he was barely touching it. Éowyn must have found that propitious moment and asked him about the Nazgûl.

Unlike the Rohirrim, Merry was not wearing armor to eat brunch. His embroidered yellow waistcoat must have been as fancy as any of Prince Éomer's clothing when he set out from the Shire, but by this time it was threadbare and stained. Éowyn had changed into her Gondorian grandmother's leather cuirass with the mail sleeves—and she wore a sword at her hip just like the warriors of Rohan.

To a man, all of these warriors of Rohan were doing their best to ignore that fact.

Naturally the warriors were all talking shop. When would the Riders from Snowbourne arrive? Where could Théoden's forces rendezvous with the men from East Emnet and the Wold? How much horse feed should each man carry with him? (I listened closely to that last discussion.)

All the while, Théoden King's eyes kept returning to Princess Éowyn and the battle armor she was wearing. She smiled thinly and spread honey on her bread. Finally the King spoke, and his strong voice easily carried to our side of the table.

"Éowyn my sister-daughter, there is no question that your heart is great, but this battle is not for you. I would have you return to Edoras and take up my seat in the Golden Hall. I shall leave instructions that the people are to follow you in my stead."

This was the moment of truth. I could feel Éowyn quivering at my side, so I reached under the table and surreptitiously squeezed her hand.

Rising to her feet, Éowyn said with a voice that barely trembled, "Uncle, as a father I revere you and as my King I have always given you my obedience. But what you now command I cannot do, for it is my weird to ride to Minas Tirith and fight."

'Weird' means like the Weird Sisters—'fate' or 'doom' or 'kismet.' It's a concept that runs deep in the supernatural beliefs of Rohan, and I think that either the Celts or the Vikings believed something like that too, although I forget which.

So this was something that the King had to take seriously. His face paled, and the Rohirric commanders fell silent. "Are you sure, Éowyn?" Théoden pleaded. "Perhaps this is naught but a fey dream. Do not tell me that I must lose you to a warrior's vow as King Brego lost his son Baldor to the Paths of the Dead."

"I am sure. Very sure. My weird came to me in a dream, but it was a true dream," Éowyn said firmly. As she sat down, the whole length of the table erupted in a shocked hubbub.

It says a lot about the wisdom of King Théoden and Lord Aragorn that neither of them was stupid enough to bleat, "No, no, you can't be sure." Théoden was sitting with eyes narrowed, probably cudgeling his brain for a loophole. Éomer, on the other hand, burst out, "This is madness, Éowyn. War is the province of men. When the blood and the screams and the horror of battle take hold, what do you think you will do?"

Éowyn glared at him. "Like any warrior, I will do what I must, brother. Do not say that I know nothing of blood and screams and horror. In the Glittering Caves I slew an invading orc. And the enemy that I must face is one that no man here can defeat."

Éomer couldn't do anything but splutter. I guess this was the first time Éowyn had given him back as good as she'd got. As the muttering grew louder around the table, Éowyn turned to Merry and me and said, "We should go. There is something that I want to show the two of you."

Startled, Merry and I exchanged one of those 'we're in for it now' looks. He wasn't accustomed to being dragged around by a Warrior Princess but he'd been in the Fellowship, which I suppose was much the same thing, peril-wise. Before we scurried off, he grabbed a double handful of dried fruit and nuts and stuffed them into his pockets—doubtless a fine hobbit tradition.

Éowyn marched us down the trail into the valley, the heels of her boots crunching angrily on the gravel. After awhile I noticed that we were getting close to the fir trees next to the mountain, and I also noticed that the Rohirrim who saw us seemed to be nervous about where we were going. Merry noticed it too.

Stepping up to the plate, I asked Éowyn, "So, what are we doing?"

Éowyn paused for a moment, as if unsure of what she wanted to say. Finally she told us, "Within the Dimholt Wood there is a road that leads to a Forbidden Door in the Haunted Mountain. It is said that the Dwimorberg is guarded by the ghosts of the Men of the Mountains. Many years ago, Prince Baldor, the heir of King Brego, rashly vowed to go through that Door and walk the Paths of the Dead. He was never seen again."

"Ghosts!" Merry exclaimed with an elaborate shudder.

Definitely not the answer I'd wanted to hear. "I ain't afraid of no ghosts" sounds okay in the movies, but in Middle-earth, ghosts are real. That's what the Ringwraiths are, after all.

Éowyn continued down the stony path at a fast clip, and in spite of what we'd just heard, Merry and I clattered along after her. I guess we were nuts or something.

Under normal circumstances, the warriors of Rohan would have kept their Princess out of the Dimholt Woods somehow—by force, if necessary. But fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on your point of view) there was a silvery horn call just as we hit the trees and most of the men in the vicinity hurried off to see what was going on.

We kept walking. Past that little grove of twisted fir trees there was a dark, spooky-looking crevice in the face of the ancient mountain.

"Is this the Forbidden Door?" Merry asked warily.

"No, it is only the entrance to the Valley of the Dwimorberg. Shall we go in?" Éowyn stepped inside without waiting for a reply.

Merry and I took deep breaths and followed into the crevice. As it turned out, it was just a dark hole through the rock, and not a particularly deep hole at that. In less than twenty paces we reached the other side.

We had passed into a completely different microclimate. It was as if geology had gone mad! From a high country evergreen wood we suddenly entered a sandy arroyo irregularly spotted with tufts of harsh grass and scraggly bushes. A hollow wind sighed eerily along canyon walls that curved around us like giant fangs, and reflected by white limestone, the sunlight was shockingly bright. I felt like I'd entered a Wasteland—in a T.S. Eliot sort of way.

"Do you mean for us to go through the Forbidden Door?" Merry demanded.

Stopping right in front of the Door, Éowyn looked down at him. "You are brave, Merry, very brave. Most of my people dare not come to this place, but you have come. If I go through it, will you come with me?"

Merry shook his head stubbornly. "Not without a very good reason. Most of my rashness got knocked out of me on the way here."

To the great relief of Merry and me, Éowyn moved back a few steps from the Door of Doom. "You need not, for there is no good reason for me to go through this Door. The path that I must take is to Minas Tirith, for at its gate I must slay the Witch-King of Angmar, leader of the Nine Black Riders."

Unsurprisingly, her new answer did not reassure Merry. "No, Princess Éowyn, don't do it! You'll be killed! One of those Riders stabbed my friend with a Morgul blade and he nearly died!"

Right there in the dust, Éowyn went down on one knee—either to look Merry eye to eye or as a gesture of supplication. Maybe both. "If we are to win this War, Sauron's Ringwraiths must be defeated. This will be no easy task, for there is a prophecy that the Witch-King shall not be killed by mortal man. Since I am no mortal man, it may be that I can kill him. Merry, you faced these wraiths before. What you observed could aid me in the fight. Will you ride to Gondor as my esquire?"

Merry scuffed at the sand with one hairy foot. "I don't know very much about Black Riders."

"You know more than I do," Éowyn answered unyieldingly.

Merry listened to the wind moaning through the valley. "If I don't ride to Gondor with you, I won't go at all, will I?"

"Probably not. Neither Théoden King nor my brother Éomer think that either of us is suited to war."

Merry stood quietly for a few moments and then said with a shrug, "Well, I won't say I like it, but I'll do it." When she heard this, Éowyn clapped her hand on Merry's shoulder and gave him such a big smile that I almost felt jealous. She hadn't asked me whether I'd go through the Door with her.

Decision made, we returned the way we'd come as fast as we could walk. That arroyo was a creepy place, and no mistake. When we left the Dimholt Woods we found out what everyone was so excited about.

Horses!


	7. On Behalf of One Whom I Love

**Usual disclaimers and thanks**: Nothing is mine, etc., etc.

Thanks to my betas, eekfrenzy and Rose—and thanks also to my reviewers.

Reviews are my only reward. I like them a lot.

So, why did Éowyn walk up to the Forbidden Door? Perhaps she needed to test herself. Éowyn knows that she will have to fight the dwimmerlaik Witch-King of Angmar. Will she be able to stand firm against supernatural horror or will her courage break?

**Chapter 07 On Behalf of One Whom I Love**

The Sorceress of the Golden Wood (that's what the Rohirrim call Galadriel) had sent over five hundred elven horses to Dunharrow. Most of them were pastured in the lower valley, but a couple of them were grazing near King Théoden's pavilion. They were such lovely creatures! One was a silver-grey and the other was nearly black, and their hides shone like metal in the afternoon sun. The elven horses' necks were long and graceful and their legs were powerful but slender. Compared to the warhorses of Rohan they looked like Rudolf Nureyev surrounded by the Pittsburgh Penguins hockey team.

Naturally Princess Éowyn went off immediately to see the horses. Merry zipped off just as quickly in the opposite direction… so he could get away from these crazy human women, I guess.

And me? I was wondering whether my role in this saga was done. It looked like I would be stuck in Dunharrow until the War was all over. Merry would be the one who would watch Éowyn's back, not me.

I hated that idea with a passion.

While I was kicking pebbles and moping, I glanced up and recognized someone else who wasn't where he was supposed to be. It was Wulfhelm, and he was hastily legging it to Théoden King's pavilion. This was bad. If he'd snuck off to Dunharrow to fight, who was watching over Fréalof?

As I moved to intersect him, I noticed that he looked pretty tired and scruffy. He must have had a hard trip to Dunharrow. Then again, none of my kids were exactly best friends to soap and water.

"Wulfhelm! What are you doing here?" I snatched at the sleeve of his thin muslin shirt so hard that I nearly ripped it off. "I thought I told you to stay with Fréalof."

Wulfhelm might have been tired, but he wasn't too tired to snap at me. "And so I am! Captain Haldir brought Fréalof here so he could be seen by an Elvish healer."

What! My poor wounded kid had been dragged through the woods, down a gorge, and up a cliff? "Fréalof must be nearly dead by now!"

"Not so," Wulfhelm instantly contradicted me. "These Elves are light-footed, I will say that for them. Fréalof was carried here on a litter as softly as if he were in a baby's cradle. They sang lullabies in their Elf-tongue the whole journey long and he hardly woke at all."

That sounded okay, but… "Where is he?"

"Come, I will show you. Captain Haldir ordered Fréalof to be taken to the tent of Théoden King."

So that's where we went. In a spot of lèse majesté, we both ducked inside without an invitation. Fortunately, the King wasn't in. He was probably out looking at the elven horses himself.

The pavilion of the King was no pup tent. It was at least eight feet high and from side to side, maybe twice as broad. The King had real furniture, too—a full-sized bed with a fur throw, a square cabinet/desk, a chair made of polished wood, and two leather chests that probably held several changes of clean clothing. A woolen carpet woven with the sun pattern of Rohan covered the dirt floor.

Like they say, it's good to be the King.

The King's pavilion was divided into 'rooms' by wood frames hung with tapestries. Wulfhelm went around the tapestry with the white horse symbol and I followed, to find Fréalof asleep on the floor in a gold satin bedsack. His brother Elric was squatting right next to him, dozing.

At least Fréalof was sleeping peacefully. That had to be a good sign. His face was still a raw, puffed-up pink and his blisters had been slathered with some sort of greenish gel. Maybe aloe vera—I trusted the Elves not to put nasty stuff in their medicine.

Shaking himself awake, Elric looked up at me and said in a stage whisper, "I think my brother is getting better. The Elves have been giving him magic potions."

"I asked the Elves about what they were doing, just as you told me," Wulfhelm interjected. For a wonder, he was using his inside voice. "They said that they put mold in the potion!"

It would appear that the Elves had invented penicillin. Without missing a beat, I asked, "Bread mold?"

I was mostly concentrating on Fréalof but out of the corner of one eye I noticed that Wulfhelm was briefly startled by my knowledge of Elvish medicine. One for my side.

"Yes, yes, you are right, Barbarella. It was bread mold," he said testily. "Now can I go find some food? All the Elves had to eat was dried fruit and crackers."

"Go ahead—Elric and I will hold the fort while you're gone."

Wulfhelm ran off to forage and I sat down next to Elric. He was scruffy and grimy too—soap and water weren't his best friends either. Elric twitched as I ran my fingers through his greasy blond hair, then looked up at me with a tired smile. "He is getting better, isn't he? I'm not just dreaming."

"I really think he is. The Elves seem to be doing all the right things."

It was wonderful to feel hopeful for a change. I did wonder, though, who Haldir was bringing in as his medical consultant. What kind of doctor would make house calls in the middle of the War of the Ring?

For awhile I just sat and watched Fréalof breathe, and eventually I heard a familiar voice from the other side of the tapestry that was speaking in Westron.

"I will take my leave now."

It was the voice of King Théoden! Neither Elric nor I dared make a noise—we didn't want him to find out that we were trespassing in his tent. I was too chicken to peek out from behind the arras, but I soon overheard two men speaking to each other in Old High Elvish. Which, of course, I understood perfectly.

"Why are you here, Lord Elrond?" said another voice that I recognized as Aragorn's. He was speaking to Elrond of Rivendell!

"The shadow of Sauron draws nigh. The End of this Age has come."

"It will not be our end, but his."

"You ride to war but not to victory. You are outnumbered, Aragorn. You need more men."

"Is my mortal strength never enough for you? There are no more men."

"There are the men who dwell in the mountain."

"Those are ghosts, not men. They answer to no one."

"They will answer to the Heir of Isildur! They cannot rest until he sets them free. You must become who you were born to be. I bring you the sword of the King of Gondor—West-Brilliance, reforged from Sun-Moon."

There was a sharp scrape-schwing as Aragorn unsheathed the sword. "Sauron himself will not have forgotten the Sword of Elendil."

"Arwen has chosen the mortal life. Her fate is now tied to the fate of this world. Will you allow it to fall?"

There was a long pause, and then Aragorn said, "I shall not fail her. I will take the Dimholt Road."

This time I could actually hear Aragorn's footsteps as he left the tent. If that cat-footed Ranger was making a noise that my ears could catch, it had to be the moral equivalent of a stomp.

I was still sitting there, afraid to stand up and leave, when an equally-silent Elf pushed aside the tapestry hangings and stared right at us. The real Lord Elrond does bear a faint resemblance to Hugo Weaving but what really hit me was his elven aura of enchantment. It felt like an icy snowball in my face.

When he spoke to us, I practically levitated in shock. "Do either of you understand Westron? I do not know your tongue any more than you know mine."

Not wishing to admit that I understood what he'd said to Aragorn, I nodded my head stiffly up and down and finally choked out in Westron, "Yes, sir."

"Let me see the injured boy. I have promised to heal him."

Lord Elrond crouched down next to Fréalof, who was still asleep, and skimmed deft physician's fingers over Fréalof's blisters. Pinning Elric down with one elbow, I watched Elrond frown intently as he made his diagnosis. And then, suddenly, Lord Elrond's grim expression melted and his freezing aura mutated into spring sunshine. I don't know whether he was using magic or not, but it's no wonder that Elrond is known as a great healer—you could feel in your bones how much he cared about his patient.

"Is Fréalof going to live? Will he be crippled by all these burns?" I asked.

Without looking up, Elrond answered, "We shall prevail. The burns are severe and many of the scars will never leave him, but the lad is strong. In time he will run and ride again."

This guy was good. A prognosis like that was the best you could hope for in a modern burn unit. Elric wasn't able to say it to him, so I did. "Fréalof's brother Elric and I thank you with all our hearts."

Lord Elrond nodded distractedly. "Leave us now. I wish to be alone to examine him."

Here was something that the great Lord Elrond had in common with old Guthrun, herbwoman of Rohan. Neither of them had much of a taste for sidewalk supervisors.

I practically had to drag Elric out of the King's pavilion—he was half-frantic to know what was going on. Once we were both outside, he insisted that I play Translation Girl and tell him every word that Lord Elrond had said. He also wanted to know whether I thought that Lord Elrond was as good a healer as Captain Haldir said he was.

"Elrond of Rivendell is the best healer there is," I said firmly. "If he says that Fréalof will get better, you can count on it."

Once I'd told him everything that I could, Elric sighed deeply and squinted up at the sky. "This is the best day in my whole life. We owe this all to you, Barbarella. However did you convince the Elves to help us?"

How had I done that? On Haldir I'd used low cunning and a guilt trip. I wasn't going to tell that to Elric. As for Lord Elrond, I still have no idea how Haldir talked him into taking Fréalof's case.

Unlike Elric, I felt unhappy and drained. It certainly wasn't the best day in my life. Princess Éowyn was going to ride off to Gondor and I would have to stay behind. It was the logical thing to do, of course. I wasn't a fighter; I wasn't even much of a rider. What could I possibly accomplish if I went along? All that I could really do was wave goodbye and bid her farewell.

Why did that hurt me so terribly? Was it a matter of ego? Friendship? Jealousy? Or was I just afraid that Éowyn would ride off and never come back?

Staring blankly into the sky, I wracked my brain for an answer. Eventually one came, and it wasn't anything that I'd expected.

I was caught in the old monkey-trap. Remember the tale of the monkey who got his paw stuck in a jar because he wouldn't let go of the candy inside it? In a couple of days, Éowyn would ride off to fight a Nazgûl because I had told her that it was her destiny. Me. I had told her that and so she was going. There was no way that I could escape the monkey-trap unless I was able to let that fact go.

Could you?

I couldn't. By hook or by crook, I had to ride to Minas Tirith with Éowyn.

Once I realized that failure was not an option, it changed everything. Choices that I would have considered inconceivable or ridiculous only minutes earlier were suddenly necessary and pragmatic.

I knew, of course, that King Théoden would never allow Barbarella the Handmaiden to join his Riders. The only possible solution was to rip a page from the books of dear old Professor Tolkien. Princess Éowyn was going to war under her own name—but Dernhelm would still ride off to Gondor.

I could only hope that the Riders were really, really oblivious.

My next choice was truly awful—but I couldn't think of an alternative.

I looked down at poor Fréalof's elder brother and said quietly, "Elric, I need you to do something for me—a very big thing, a hard thing."

Without a second's hesitation, Elric answered, "Anything you ask, Barbarella!"

"No, I want you to wait until you hear what I have to say first."

"All right, what is it that you want me to do, then?" he said impatiently.

I moistened dry lips with a suddenly-numb tongue. "Princess Éowyn has vowed before the King that she will go to Gondor to fight."

Elric nodded wisely. "Yes, I have been told of this."

It figures. Nobody can gossip like the macho warriors of Rohan!

"I am our Princess's handmaiden and it is my duty to go with her. But I'm awful with horses. Just surviving the ride will take everything I've got. I need an esquire to take care of my horse. Will you ride with me?"

For a few moments Elric looked down at his grubby fingernails and didn't say anything. I began to feel horribly guilty. This was the worst thing that I'd ever done! I was asking him to abandon his injured brother, to travel far beyond the world he knew, and to ride into a battle that would be even worse than the Battle of Helm's Deep.

Then Elric looked up at me with eyes that were shining with joy. "Of course I will go! Fréalof will be so proud of me! All our lives, my brother and I have been nothing but stableboys. Now he has been given great gifts by the noble Elves and I shall ride to war alongside our Princess and her honored counsellor. The sons of Hof-hring shall gain great renown!"

My own eyes misted up. My kids were turning into men, and I could only hope that every one of Elric's wishes would come true.

As soon as Elric made up his mind, he immediately took the reins. "There is no time to waste—I must put together the equipment and feed that we need for the trip very quickly. What horse have you been riding?"

"I've been riding Hasufel—he's in the King's paddock right now."

"Hasufel?" Elric didn't say anything but that lemon-suck expression had to mean, "Boy, is she overmounted."

"You see my problem."

"Do not worry. We will deal with him together." Swiftly, Elric scooted off to do his job.

Edlun the smith was so glad I had no more laundry to wash that he never got around to asking why I needed a helm and a mailshirt. The Riders assembling at Dunharrow had arrived with their own gear, of course, but he'd brought a cartful of bits and pieces of arms and armor in case someone needed them. I didn't dare try on armor while he was watching, but I picked out the mailshirt with the narrowest shoulders and a helmet that looked like a coffeepot with eyeholes.

I would be a sorry sight, but with any luck I'd look like a raw farmboy who'd pushed himself into the cavalry and not a stupid girl who'd snuck in where she didn't belong.

I was dragging all this heavy metal back to Princess Éowyn's tent and hoping that she wouldn't fuss when she found out what I intended to do when a voice from behind made me jump.

"What do you think you are doing, Barbarella?"

It was Aragorn. The Phantom Ranger had struck again!

Turning to face him, I said innocently, "I'm carrying armor to the Princess's tent."

Aragorn directed a suspicious squint at me. "Princess Éowyn has no need of this armor. Do you mean to go to Minas Tirith yourself? Surely you know that this is too dangerous."

Obviously Aragorn had little experience with liberated women doing what men didn't want them to do, so this time, I was the one with superior knowledge of the terrain. I shoved my armor out of the way and sat down on a boulder at the side of the path. "Let's talk about this."

Aragorn sat down next to me, which seemed to indicate that he was at least willing to listen to what I had to say. That was a relief—if he decided to tattle, my whole plan was doomed.

"My Princess is riding off to fight and I must go with her. I know it will be dangerous but I don't care."

In other circumstances I suppose that Aragorn might have spoken more diplomatically, but he was, after all, on a time-sensitive mission. "But Barbarella, of what use could you possibly be in a war?"

I'd been wondering that myself, but come to think of it, Prince Legolas himself had asked me for advice about Saruman's rockets. Maybe Aragorn's Elf pal hadn't bothered to mention that little fact to him.

On the spur of the moment I came up with a crazy argument. I had no idea whether it would work but hey, it's better to be hung as a sheep than a lamb.

"Let me see your sword."

Aragorn was startled by my request, but he was more than willing to show off the shiny new toy. Unsheathed, his sword was enormous and intimidating—easily four feet of cold, deadly steel.

"This is Andúril, Flame of the West. It was forged from the shards of Narsil, sword of Elendil."

Oh, so that's what they call it in Westron.

"I suppose those were the shards that Boromir cut his finger on?" I asked with a twist of 'second sight' mischief. Aragorn knew that nobody could have told me about that little incident. Running my own fingers down the side of the blade, I traced its elvish inscription. I'm sure I could have deciphered the lettering if I'd wanted to, but it didn't matter.

"With this sword, Isildur, son of Elendil, cut the One Ring from Sauron's hand and won the war for the Last Alliance," Aragorn said with quiet pride.

Sooner or later you find an opening if you keep them talking. And sure enough, here it was. In spite of everything that happened later, Aragorn was very proud of his ancestor's victory.

"You are the Heir of Isildur. Now it's your turn and your destiny to fight Sauron," I said. Aragorn inclined his head slightly in agreement with this self-evident statement.

"I am the Heir of Naomi, and I have a destiny too. In a strange and distant land that you will never see, my mother spent her whole life reading much and dreaming deeply about anything that could possibly exist in the whole realm of the fantastic. Nothing that mortal man could write about or imagine would ever astound her."

"Some of the creatures that acknowledge Sauron as their master are beyond the comprehension of mortal man," Aragorn said.

"Really?" I said with a bland smile. "So far everything that I've seen has been pretty conventional."

More mischief on my part—we both knew the things that I'd seen.

"Look, Aragorn, I'm not my mother, but I've come to understand that I learned much more from her than I thought I did. In extraordinary times like these it is my destiny and my duty to offer counsel to Princess Éowyn when she needs it. Unastounded."

Crazy or not, my argument somehow had an effect on Lord Aragorn. Resheathing his sword, he said unhappily, "It is not my place to give you orders, but I am concerned, Barbarella. Be watchful, for I cannot protect you where you mean to go. I must take the Dimholt Road and walk the Paths of the Dead."

"I've heard of that road," I answered. "I'll see you in Minas Tirith, then."

My matter-of-fact response might have surprised Aragorn, but he didn't show it. Finding somebody who didn't see his mission as certain death must have been a morale booster. As he walked away, he raised one hand in farewell.

Of course I didn't think it was certain death. Aragorn was the Heir of Isildur, the man that the ghosts of the Haunted Mountain were supposed to listen to. Human beings are undependable, but you'd think we could at least trust ghosts to go by the rules.


	8. Unexpected Allies

**Usual disclaimers and thanks**: Nothing is mine, etc., etc.

Thanks to my betas, eekfrenzy and Rose—and thanks also to my reviewers.

Reviews are my only reward. I like them a lot.

In case you're interested, the title for my last chapter 'On Behalf of One Whom I Love' comes from Lord Elrond's words in the scene at Dunharrow. In the movie, of course—he never showed up there in the book! There are certain slight differences between what Elrond and Aragorn say in the movie and in my story—although I personally think that to an immortal Elf, 'Arwen is dying' and 'Arwen has chosen the mortal life' would be essentially synonymous.

**Chapter 08 Unexpected Allies**

By the time I reached Éowyn's tent the clothes that I'd hung up were dry, so I pulled them down and packed them in my saddlebags. Then I dumped the armor in a corner of the tent and discreetly draped my Elf-cloak over it—just in case. I was just in time, because Éowyn showed up with Merry a little while later. He'd changed back to his leather armor—wherever he'd got it from—but looked a little dubious about it.

Dropping a saddlebag next to my cloak-concealed mailshirt, Merry announced, "I think I smell dinner cooking out there. I'll go get us some!" Without waiting for an answer, he darted out with the speed of…well, of a nervous hobbit.

Éowyn shook her head solemnly. "Master Merry has a stout heart, but he is no warrior. Do you think I did right to ask him to come with me?"

This was essentially the same question that I'd been asking myself about Elric, so it was easy to tell her what I'd figured out.

"You said that we had to defeat the Ringwraiths in order to win the war. That was true, wasn't it?"

"Of course it was!" Éowyn said indignantly.

"To the best of your knowledge, Merry can help you with that task, right?"

"But-!" Éowyn could see where I was going, but she didn't like it any better than I did.

"Back home we have a saying: 'The good of the many outweighs the good of the few—or the one.'"

"That is a cold, hard saying," Éowyn protested.

"It's unemotional, I'll give you that."

While we were both standing there feeling guilty and conflicted, Elric opened the tentflap and peered in at me. "I packed a saddlebag with Hasufel's feed and I've cleaned all of his tack. Are you really sure that you want to use that saddle, Barbarella?"

Oops! Elric had just blown my secret plan. No propitious moment for me!

Éowyn swung around and asked sharply, "Barbarella, what is he talking about?"

"I'm your handmaiden and my place is with you."

"But it is too…" Éowyn cut herself off in midsentence. Obviously she couldn't say, 'It's too dangerous for a girl.' "There is no place for a handmaiden among the Riders. Besides, you cannot handle such a long journey."

"Call me your counsellor, then, and tie me to the horse if you have to—but I'm going."

"Éomer will yank the reins from your hand and drag you from your horse as soon as he sees you!"

I pulled up the elven-cloak to reveal my mailshirt and helmet. "I've got a disguise."

Éowyn shook her head in exasperation. "Wearing that mailshirt will not make anyone believe that you are a man. My brother will be furious."

"Like he isn't already?"

"He'll be furious with me, too! He may refuse to let me travel with his Riders! How can you do this to me, Barbarella?"

"Because I'm the one who told you to go in the first place!"

We were yelling louder and louder and working ourselves up into our first big argument when Elric asked plaintively, "Did I say something wrong, ladies?"

Elric's 'propitious' interruption broke the momentum of our quarrel in the nick of time. Éowyn and I looked at each other with lips quivering with suppressed laughter, and then Éowyn tousled Elric's hair. "It is never wrong to speak truly. Does Barbarella mean to take you to war with her, then?

He hurriedly took a step backward. As I'd recently discovered, Elric's not much into tousling. "She is not taking me to war—I'm just going to take care of her warhorse."

"That is wise of her."

At that moment Merry stepped into the tent carrying a plate of pork and bread and cheese. He must have sensed the tension in the air. "Did I miss something?"

What could we say?

"Nothing as important as food, Merry," I told him. We could all agree to that.

Merry Brandybuck is first-rate when it comes to foraging. Everyone felt less cranky after a good dinner, and afterwards Éowyn brought out a skin of hard cider. The four of us companionably passed around the cider in the two mugs we had with us. The sun was setting and there was no campfire in our tent so I was starting to light some candles when the Elf Serindë appeared at the tent entrance.

I could recognize that Elf even by candlelight. Serindë is elegant, but very Spartan, and her face has such uncompromising features that cosmetics would drop from it in despair.

"I know what you intend to do, and I will help you if I can," Serindë told Éowyn.

Éowyn's eyes flashed to mine. "Barbarella?"

I shook my head. "I haven't said a word to anyone outside this tent." Not about Éowyn's mission, anyway.

Whatever happened to 'loose lips sink ships'? Even in high school I never encountered a gossip chain as speedy as the one at that Dunharrow camp!

With exaggerated patience, Serindë explained, "You told your King that you meant to defeat a foe no mortal man can vanquish. I know Glorfindel's prophecy about the Witch-King. I was there when the Elf-Lord made it."

"So how are you going to help her?" I demanded. "Do you have a spare magic sword or something?"

"Mortals like to believe that everything done by Elves is magical. It is not so," Serindë said dismissively. "No, I wish to join your company."

"My company?" Éowyn shook her head, startled. "I have no company. I mean to ride out with Théoden's warriors."

"Why would you wish to do that?" Serindë surprised us all by asking. "Your mission is not theirs, and a small group can travel more swiftly than a large army."

Uncertain, Éowyn turned to me for an opinion. "What do you think, Barbarella?"

I had no idea what Serindë was up to, so I decided to equivocate. "If you and Serindë think it's safe for a small group to ride to Gondor, why not? For one thing, I'm sure it would be quicker." And for another, I wouldn't have to wear a coffee pot on my head the whole way.

Éowyn didn't actually disagree with my opinion, so Serindë announced, "It is decided, then. If we leave tonight, we can reach Edoras by dawn, well in advance of King Théoden's forces."

"Leaving before the Riders…might be prudent," Éowyn admitted.

Merry and Elric just sat there open-mouthed and watched the girls roll everything up. If they'd known that Serindë was a female too, it would have really freaked them out!

"One more thing, Barbarella," Serindë added. "When we descend to Captain Haldir's camp I will provide you with a new mount. One of our elven horses will be far more suitable for you."

Not another horse! Hasufel was not my pal, but at least I knew him. "Uh…I'm not sure it's a good idea to switch horses in the middle of the stream."

"I am offering you a mount from the stable of Lady Galadriel!" Serindë snapped back at me. "Will you refuse the Lady's horse?"

"I fear that you cannot," Éowyn whispered to me. "The Elves are our allies—it would be impolitic."

So after all, I was forced to agree.

It turned out that what Serindë meant by 'leave tonight' turned out to be 'leave immediately.' Elric ran off to collect Windfola and we threw my saddlebags onto Éowyn's horse. At least I was packed. Then we all walked down the switchback trail and marched through the main Rohirric encampment. None of the warriors realized what we were doing, but of course it was pretty dark by then.

The elven camp turned out to be very much like our own. The warriors might be prettier and the workmanship of their weapons finer, but their equipment was exactly the same—pup tents, campfires, even a little forge like Edlun's. Just like the Rohirrim, the Elves were singing songs around the campfires—something about Elbereth, I think. As they sang, their faces all lit up with that shining Elf-enchantment.

The elven singing made me kind of antsy. It reminded me that the camp of the Elves was not where mere humans ought to be, and moreover, I didn't want to run up against that testy Captain Haldir again.

As we stood there, a young man who clearly wasn't an Elf came up to us leading three horses. His eyes were grey and his hair was brown, so he wasn't one of the Rohirrim, either. He wore leather armor and his silver cloak-clasp had the shape of a six-pointed star. "I have readied our horses as you requested, Serindë."

"This is Bëor, one of the Northern Rangers who helped Lord Elrond bring Galadriel's horses to Dunharrow," Serindë explained to Éowyn. Then she said to Bëor, "I mean to accompany Princess Éowyn and her company to Minas Tirith. We leave tonight."

Seeing a mixed group like ours must have been a surprise to him, but Bëor made no comment. I took a closer look at the horses he was holding and saw that two were tall elven horses, a grey and a dun. The third was two or three hands shorter and kind of shaggy—almost a pony in comparison.

Serindë patted the hindquarters of the dun. "This is Nifredil, the horse that I promised you, Barbarella. She will carry you swiftly and sweetly to Minas Tirith."

When Nifredil walked up to me and nuzzled my shoulder, I lost all interest in the Northern Ranger, in the elven camp, and even in Serindë. I fell in love with that horse at first sight. 'Nifredil' means 'snowflake' in Elvish and she had a white blaze on her nose that was shaped just like one. Her silky-smooth hide shone like metallic gold in the firelight and she walked with the grace of a ballerina. I reached out to shakily pat her nose and she widened her gentle brown eyes and nickered softly at me.

After a minute or so of stunned equine adoration, Éowyn cleared her throat and brought me back to my senses. I felt a little embarrassed about going bonkers over a horse, but of course a Princess of Rohan wasn't going to criticize me for being a bit horse-crazy. Actually, nobody in our party—from Serindë to Elric—seemed to think it was funny.

Maybe that's because nobody in Middle-earth has come up yet with the saying, 'They're only animals.'

Serindë was already sitting astride her grey Elven horse. From the size of her saddlebag, she'd packed her bow and her arrows and not much else. "If you truly mean to do this thing, Princess, we should go now."

Putting Merry up on Windfola's back, Éowyn vaulted into the saddle in one smooth motion. "Yes! We ride!"

Bëor was silently evaluating our little group. He must have wondered why a Princess of Rohan and an Elf of Lothlórien were riding out ahead of Théoden King's cavalry, but he didn't ask. Instead he said, "Take me with you, Princess. I have often traveled the Great West Road to Anórien and can serve you as a guide."

"Often?" I echoed skeptically. This Ranger had to be much younger than Aragorn—I didn't see so much as a speck of grey in his dark hair. "The ride to Gondor is no weekend trip—when did you find the time?"

He gave me a smirk worthy of Aragorn himself. "I am older than I look—I have just turned forty-two."

Another Dúnedain. The guy had fifteen years on me and he still had a baby face and a peachfuzz mustache.

"With your permission?" Serindë said crisply to Éowyn. At her nod, Bëor climbed onto his fuzzy little horse and edged into our group.

Then it was my turn. Luckily for me, although all the Elves that I'd seen rode bareback, Nifredil was tacked with saddle, stirrups, and reins. Tamping down my nervousness, I let Elric boost my left foot into Nifredil's stirrup and pulled myself into a soft-as-suede saddle. Elric settled my saddlebags and clambered up in front of me.

We were all ready to head out and face the enemy. Assuming that the men of Rohan didn't stop us first.

Éowyn brandished her sword. "Courage, brave hearts! Surely renown was never won without danger!"

Serindë was more matter-of-fact. "If this is to be done, let it be done quickly."

As for me, when it came to heroic mottos, all that I could come up with was, "Never give up! Never surrender!"

And Bëor? He rode off silently down the trail out of Dunharrow and let the rest of us follow after him.

It was a little before moonrise, so nobody saw us as we snuck out of Dunharrow. Bëor was an excellent guide; the Ranger was able to lead us without hesitation on tracks that seemed almost invisible. He was also very silent, so it was sometimes hard to follow him. Fortunately it was easy to spot Serindë—her armor glittered in the starlight.

This wasn't the first time that Princess Éowyn and I had traveled together by night, so I knew it wasn't impossible. It was slow going, though—even retracing a route we'd ridden only the day before. Nevertheless, we eventually found our way back to Edoras in the dark.

As we approached the gates of Edoras, the moon was high in the sky. There didn't seem to be many warriors on the night watch. Éowyn peered up anxiously at the guard towers, then called out to demand entry.

There was a rattling noise as somebody descended a ladder, and the gate swung open to reveal a grizzled old man in piecemeal armor. It was Osfrid, one of the senior citizens who'd joined my stretcher brigade at Helm's Deep.

"Welcome, Princess Éowyn. Do you bear orders from Théoden King?"

"No, I have no new orders. Stay at your post and let us in."

Osfrid was no warrior—he hadn't been for years. It looked like Théoden King had mustered every warrior that he had and left no reserve force to marshal Edoras.

It was D-Day. This would be total victory—or total defeat.

When we arrived at Meduseld, Elric and Bëor headed off to put our horses into the King's Stable. It was Haleth, my #1 sidekick, who opened the Great Door and let the rest of us inside. He'd taken on the job of Acting Doorwarden, Graveyard Shift, on top of his other duties, and he was so bleary-eyed that he didn't even grill me about what we were up to. Serindë and Merry stretched out to sleep on the benches in the Great Hall, but Éowyn and I climbed the stairs in the south tower and went up to her bedchamber.

Looking around Éowyn's room by candlelight, I was struck with amazement when I realized that despite all the things that had happened, nothing around us had changed. I heard a clanking noise and saw that Éowyn had dropped her leather armor and riding habit onto the wardrobe chest and thrown herself into bed.

My 'handmaiden mode' clicked into gear and I somehow found the energy to hang up and brush the clothes that she'd discarded. Wrinkling my nose, I mumbled, "This armor will probably smell pretty nasty by the time the war is over."

From within the canopy of the bed, Éowyn answered drowsily, "My brother Éomer says that after awhile you get used to the reek."

I burrowed into my usual spot at Éowyn's side and she pulled herself up on one elbow to look down at me. "Are you sure that you can handle the ride to Gondor? You should not feel guilty about your prophecy. You do not have to go to Minas Tirith because of it."

I stared up at the pale blob that was Princess Éowyn's face and finally told her the last, most important reason why I had to go with her. Somehow, it's easier to speak the truth when your face is hidden in the dark. "I am a stranger in this land. I have no other home except with you. Where would I choose to be but at your side?"

Éowyn sighed. "I should not be glad to hear you say that, but I am."

The next morning I hurriedly washed my hair and snatched a breakfast of black bread and cheese in the kitchen. After that I rushed out of Meduseld and down the main stairs to find that I was still the last member of our little 'fellowship' to assemble in the courtyard. Princess Éowyn and Merry were already mounted up on Windfola. As usual, my Princess looked gorgeous; she was wearing her grey hauberk over a dark green riding dress. Serindë and her grey horse Nimlith were both waiting imperturbably and Elric was holding Nifredil's reins. As for Bëor, I was amused to notice that although he was dressed and groomed about the same as the night before, his horse looked a lot less shaggy.

It was a little past dawn and still cold and damp. Pulling the elven-cloak tightly around my body, I allowed Elric to boost me onto Nifredil and we all headed out the gate. No sooner had we passed the palisade than we ran into a Rider coming from the direction of Dunharrow. It was my old 'pal' Haldred, and he was wearing the tabard of the King's War Messenger over his leather armor.

Haldred stared at us with a shocked expression. "But, but, Princess," he stuttered, "surely you are not leaving the Golden Hall! I carry a message for you from the King. He says that you are to hold Edoras until he returns and to speak with the King's voice in his absence."

"I told Théoden King that I could not do this," Éowyn said levelly. "Give me the message."

Numbly, he handed over a roll of parchment tied up with a red ribbon. As she scanned through the words of the King, I started to feel nervous. Long ride or no long ride, by this time I'd set my heart on going. I don't think I could have borne it if she'd decided at the last minute to obey her uncle and stay home.

But no. Eventually she rerolled the parchment and slipped it into her saddle pouch. "You have done what you were ordered to do, Haldred. You may return now to Dunharrow and join the King."

Horrified, Haldred shook his head. "I cannot watch a Princess of Rohan ride off to war without a single warrior of Rohan at her side. If you will not remain in Edoras, then let me ride with you."

Princess Éowyn considered his request for a moment, then nodded her head regally. "You may do so—but under my authority."

Haldred gulped, then silently wheeled around his warhorse to join our party. Without any further fuss, we rode out onto the Great West Road. Of course, there weren't enough of us to be a full Fellowship. We were the Magnificent Seven!


	9. The Seven Ride

**Usual disclaimers and thanks**: Nothing is mine, etc., etc.

Thanks to my betas, eekfrenzy and Rose—and thanks also to my reviewers.

Reviews are my only reward. I like them a lot.

I've heard it said that 'an adventure is uncomfortable dangerous things that happen to somebody else.' Barbarella certainly doesn't want an adventure. She wants to save her own life—and other people's lives if she can—and just do what she has to do. Funny the way things turn out…

**Chapter 09 The Seven Ride**

The birds were singing, the sunshine was bright and warm, and a cool, crisp breeze was blowing from the east. It would have been a fine day to ride out into the spring countryside—if we hadn't been going to war.

Nifredil was a sweetheart—so soft of gait and so easy to ride that I almost believed I'd become a horsewoman. I felt like she was telling me, "You can do it, Barbarella. Just a half-mile more."

Riding double with Elric took a little getting used to, but it wasn't so bad, really, to have a horse expert literally at my fingertips. After awhile he stopped squirming, and after a bit longer he accepted that I wasn't going to let him take the wheel all the time.

Once we were well on our way, I pushed back the elven-cloak and let my companions see that I was wearing a boy's tunic and trousers. At first this rocked Elric's youthful sensibilities but I pinched his ear and asked him, "What? Would YOU like to ride in a skirt all the way to Gondor?"

He shuddered at the mere idea. "No, ma'am!"

We'd take the Great West Road all the way to Minas Tirith, Bëor told us. When we reached it I saw that generations before it must have been built with stone like a Roman road, but like an old Roman road it had been abandoned centuries ago. Many of its stones were missing or broken and it was all overgrown with grass. It was no Interstate, that's for sure.

If our route was as simple as Bëor made it sound, I didn't see why we needed a guide. I rode up a little closer to him so I could ask about it. Maybe he'd be more communicative in the light of day.

He was riding up in front with Haldred, a mild expression on his stubbly Ranger face. At first he and Haldred had acted stiff toward each other, but they soon settled into a stolid modus vivendi of 'warriors protecting the womenfolk.' Fortunately they didn't know that Serindë was 'womenfolk'—if they'd tried that routine on her, she might have smacked them.

I tried to phrase my question in a way that wouldn't sound completely stupid. "Are we likely to run into many problems on the way to Gondor?"

"Not with a company as large as this one," Bëor said tersely. "Most animals will avoid us. But wolves hunt in packs and we could always encounter orcs, so we must be watchful at all times."

Had he said 'guide?' It sounded like what we actually needed was a 'guard.'

"You said you were a Northern Ranger. Have you met Lord Aragorn?"

"He is the Chieftain of the Rangers, and my Commander. So yes, I have met him."

So much for not sounding stupid. "How did you wind up in Dunharrow? Did Lord Aragorn send for you?"

Bëor wasn't crazy about answering questions, but he reluctantly responded, "My company was assigned to accompany Lord Elrond to Lothlórien when he went to consult with the Lady Galadriel. I believe the Rohirrim call her the Lady of the Wood. Have you ever heard of her?"

Galadriel of Lothlórien. Scary she-Elf with a 'Ring' fetish. Aragorn had once thought that I might be her secret agent. "Lord Aragorn mentioned her to me, yes."

"The Lady Galadriel requested that our company deliver her elven horses to Captain Haldir and his archers. Since that task is now complete, I was free to guide Princess Éowyn's party to Minas Tirith."

According to Bëor, he was just a chivalrous kind of guy. I couldn't help but wonder, though, whether he might have another motivation. Aragorn had brought up the topic of 'secret agents' once too often.

While I was thinking this, Bëor took a speculative look at the sheath on my belt—the one that held Prince Théodred's dagger. "I have heard your name, Lady Barbarella, but I do not know why you have joined this company. Are you Princess Éowyn's bodyguard? You wear a warrior's dagger."

Did I really look like somebody who could handle herself in a fight? "No, I'm her handmaiden."

"This journey is far too dangerous for a handmaiden," Bëor was starting to say, but Éowyn interrupted him.

"Barbarella is my counsellor," she said firmly. "She is no stranger to danger—she stood on the Deeping Wall and exhorted the men of Rohan during the Battle of Helm's Deep."

With ghoulish relish, Elric added, "When Gríma Wormtongue tried to strangle her, she stabbed him with that very dagger."

Then it was my turn to squirm.

"What did you say to the warriors when you were exhorting them?" Bëor asked curiously.

I gave him a sidelong glance. "That Saruman's rockets weren't sorcery, they were just vesper fire."

He absorbed this answer with interest. "From what land do you come? Barbarella is not the name of a woman of Rohan."

"I come from a place called Penn's Woods. It's so far away that nobody can get there from here."

Bëor was asking a lot of questions. At the time I suspected that he was gathering information for his Chief, Aragorn—but over the course of the trip I discovered that within the breast of that scruffy Ranger there beat the heart of a pedantic schoolteacher. Whacking me with a gunnysack of questions was second nature for him.

Sensing that I was about to blow my stack, Bëor asked no more questions, and once he found out that Elric didn't know a word of Westron, Bëor began to point at the things we passed and name them in both Westron and Rohirric. Oops! That should have been my job—I'm the student of linguistics, after all.

Eventually Éowyn announced, "If we ride without stopping we can reach Leofhall by nightfall. It is my uncle's hold in Folde. What say you all?"

"Sleeping in a real bed is even worth missing a meal," Merry replied stoutly. Well! If a hobbit could say that, how could the rest of us disagree?

So we decided to press on. Most of the day we spent circumnavigating Irensaga, the great mountain east of Dunharrow. A little before sunset we left the road to head north, arriving at Théoden's hold just as it got dark.

From the outside, Leofhall seemed to be a sprawling one-floor wooden ranch house—the kind of place that Ben Cartwright might have called home. It was springtime, so we passed at least one newly-planted field, but most of the area around the hold seemed to be devoted to pasturage for horses.

I wondered how a place like this was kept secure in a land full of enemies. The same way ranch houses were defended in the Old West, I guess—by force of arms. As we rode up some ranch hands came to meet us and take charge of our horses. All of them knew Éowyn and she recognized a few of them, too, even in the growing dark.

As the front door was flung open, we were greeted by the warm, welcoming glow of firelight. A small elderly woman bawled out at us, "Little princess! The little princess has come back!"

Éowyn ran up and gave her a big hug. "Tata!"

The inside of Théoden's family hold looked like a traditional Western ranch house, too, complete with knotty pine furniture and rag rugs on the packed-dirt floor. Bustling around like a tiny white-haired whirlwind, Tata soon provided our hungry company with a formidable ranch dinner. The pièce de résistance that she placed on the table in front of the fireplace was a huge roast that I thought at first was slab o'cow—but which turned out to be hunk o'bear.

The next morning I was woken by Éowyn shaking me out of the top bunk.

"Hey! Whassup?" I complained groggily as I stumbled to my feet. "We didn't get here until after dark—do you want us to leave before it's even dawn?"

"There will be no dawn today," Éowyn said in a shaken voice. By the light of the candle she was holding, I could see that she was scared. "The sun cannot shine through the terrible blackness of the sky."

What? What was she talking about?

I didn't need to put my clothes on before I followed Éowyn outside, because I hadn't bothered to take them off the night before. Once we reached the front yard of Leofhall I looked up at the sky. It was seriously, unnaturally dark. The rest of the Seven were gawking at the sky too, and so were a couple of freaked-out ranch hands.

Éowyn was right—there wouldn't be a dawn that morning. To the east, a mass of tremendous thunderclouds—grey on top, pitch black on the bottom—was expanding from the horizon faster than the sun could rise. The only light that I could see was in the west, and the western sky was an unnatural sickly green. Far-off rumbles in the east sporadically broke an eerie, sullen quiet.

It was only the second day of the trip, and already I was astounded. What could be going on? I'd never seen anything like this before in my life. Not in real life, anyway—maybe on TV or in the movies, although I had no idea when. If it was something magical, surely our Elf ought to know what it was. But Serindë was wordlessly staring up at the sky, just as astounded as the rest of us.

The Ranger Bëor loomed up out of the greenish dusk and shook his head. "This reminds me of a forest fire, but the ash that is falling is not wood ash."

He was right—some sort of ash was sifting down from the sky. I scooped up a pinch of the ash that had fallen on my left sleeve, sniffed it, and put it on my tongue. It wasn't wood ash—it tasted bitter but it was gritty to the teeth like cement dust.

Like cement. But cement is a mineral.

There was another rumble in the east and all at once I was sure that it wasn't thunder.

"It's not wood ash—it's volcanic ash!" I gasped. "Ash created by the eruption of a volcano!"

"What's a 'volcano?'" Merry asked, totally mystified.

Ex-TA that I am, I reeled out an answer automatically. "I guess you'd call it a 'smoking mountain.' They're formed when over time, pressure builds up deep underground. Eventually a weak point in the earth's crust bursts and spews out columns of smoke and ash, clouds of poisonous gases, or even rivers of molten rock. Volcanoes are rare, fortunately. I've never seen one in person—what about the rest of you?"

There was a chorus of 'noes' until Serindë said flatly, "Mount Doom is a smoking mountain."

So Mount Doom must have erupted. It took a while for the implications of that to sink in. Merry gasped in horror, "Is a volcano always so deadly? Can no one approach Mount Doom and survive?"

When I figured out what he was talking about, I too was frozen with horror. His friends Frodo and Sam were out there!

Serindë and Bëor had understood what Merry meant at once—but of course the Rohirrim had no idea what we were talking about. Princess Éowyn asked cautiously, "Is this important?"

I nervously turned to Serindë. "Do you think we should tell her?"

Serindë was staring into the east with eyes that were completely blank. You don't want to see the face of an Elf who has lost hope. Slowly refocusing her attention on the world, she said tonelessly, "Why not? But it would come better from her own counsellor."

Serindë was right—at this point, why not? I just hoped that Princess Éowyn wouldn't think I'd been holding out on her. I gave her the Cliff's Notes version:

"It's important because Sauron's One Ring has been found. Months ago, Lord Aragorn and some companions set out from Rivendell to destroy the Ring the only way that it can be destroyed—in the fires of Mount Doom. Right now two of Merry's friends are sneaking into Mordor so they can throw the Ring into the molten heart of Mount Doom and defeat Sauron."

Éowyn didn't seem to mind that I'd hadn't told her earlier—she knew how military secrets work. Finally she said to Merry, "These friends of yours are halflings, too?"

"Yes, they're halflings. Frodo and Sam are two of my best friends."

"Are they as brave as you and Pippin are?"

Merry screwed his eyes shut. "Much, much braver."

Éowyn said gently, "For brave hearts there is always hope. All may yet be well."

"If Sauron regains his Ring no hope will be left," said Serindë. You could practically see the black cloud over her head.

For Merry it had to be even worse—like he'd said, Frodo and Sam were his friends. I was actually glad when Bëor changed the subject with another question. "Who told all this to you, Barbarella? I did not see you at the Council of Elrond, and I am sure that Lord Aragorn did not speak of it to you."

Before I could say anything, Éowyn answered for me. "She did not need to be told. Barbarella has the Second Sight, the gift of foreseeing. I have witnessed this myself." Of course, technically Éowyn was incorrect—but she honestly believed what she was saying, which meant that neither of us had to lie.

Bëor wanted to ask more questions—or to argue—but Haldred surprised us all by saying, "We need to ride on now. I know nothing about 'volcanoes' but we should not wait for sunlight, for there will be none."

Wow! Haldred was the last Rider that I would have imagined taking charge of our group, but he was absolutely right, and everyone knew it. It was time for us to go.

While Elric saddled Nifredil and Windfola and covered their noses with muslin to protect them from the ash, Merry dashed into the ranch house to look for breakfast. He soon brought out a panful of biscuits dripping with gravy. Apparently even the End of All Things was not enough to pry Tata's fingers from her skillet. We scarfed down the biscuits and for once I didn't worry about calories or carbs.

Serindë must have been giving Bëor his marching orders while we finished our breakfast, because as we mounted up, she suggested to Éowyn, "In this darkness you need to have an Elf in the lead. Bëor can guard the rear today. Let the boy share his horse and Barbarella can ride next to me."

She wanted to supervise me every second, no doubt. Not that it was a bad idea—I was the worst rider in the group. When Elric worriedly caught my eye, I shrugged and said, "Sure, why not? As you ride, Bëor can teach you more words in Westron."

When we rode out into that horrid, clammy ashfall we were muffled up with bandanas over our noses and mouths like a gang of train robbers. Nifredil must have been feeling her oats, because she frequently nosed a couple of paces ahead of Serindë's grey. I kept worrying that she'd step into a gopher hole and break her leg, but she never seemed to have any trouble. Maybe elven horses have eyes like cats the way the Elves do.

It felt weird to ride through a snowstorm of stone. The visibility couldn't have been more than ten feet and the whole world seemed vacant except for us. It was not only hard to see, it was also tough to breathe. The bandanas helped somewhat, but the dust kept sifting through them. I hated to think how the horses had to be feeling. I'd learned in Rohan that a horse will keep trying for you until it keels over dead, but no horseman would ever let it reach that point.

I couldn't see very far, but I was pretty sure that we were riding due east. That was the direction we were supposed to be going, sure enough, but I remembered from the night before that the Great West Road was due south of Leofhall. I pointed this out to Serindë and she replied, "I am well aware of it. Do not be concerned."

For hours nobody had the heart to say anything. Not even Merry spoke up, and I knew how hobbits like to talk. Serindë, of course, was impersonating the Great Stone Face. Finally, though, I thought up something I wanted to try out on her.

You know how you always think up the perfect retort an hour after the argument is over? Given that Elves are immortal, I thought that I could expand the usual time limit a little. "Hey Serindë," I said, breaking the eerie quiet, "were you there during the Battle of the Last Alliance?"

"I was. But not as a combatant."

"Yeah, I figured," I said coolly. Well, actually I wasn't anywhere near that cool. I'd just been reminded that I was riding next to somebody who'd been walking around at the time of the Trojan War. If Greeks and Trojans had existed in Middle-earth, that is.

"Look, you said earlier that we were all doomed if Sauron got back his Ring. Well, he had the Ring during the Battle of the Last Alliance, but Isildur was still able to chop off his hand and get the Ring away from him. If the worst came to the worst, why couldn't we do the same thing again?"

"Since the Second Age, the race of Men has been much diminished," Serindë said sententiously. Lothlórien Elves don't seem to believe in the concept of human progress.

"And Sauron hasn't?" I countered. "In the last War he was a powerful Evil Overlord stomping around with a gigantic axe; there's nothing left of him now but a bouncing magic eyeball."

That mental image so flabbergasted Serindë that she didn't even come up with a snappy retort.


	10. The Road Goes Ever On

**Usual disclaimers and thanks**: Nothing is mine, etc., etc.

Thanks to my betas, eekfrenzy and Rose—and thanks also to my reviewers.

Reviews are my only reward. I like them a lot.

I don't recall any other fanwriter who's described the Dawnless Day. Although Tolkien did write about it, that big an ashfall (which I assume it was) seemed almost impossible. Then I checked the Tolkien Atlas and saw that Edoras and Mount Doom are only about as far apart from each other as Houston, Texas and El Paso. But the ride would feel much longer on horseback!

**Chapter 10 The Road Goes Ever On**

Through that whole awful day, we Seven rode without letup. From time to time I took a swig from my waterskin or munched a handful of granola, but with no chance to dismount and stretch I was getting pretty stiff. I didn't dare mention that, though. When Princess Éowyn agreed to let me to come along she had really gone out on a limb for me. I couldn't wimp out on her.

The reason that we couldn't stop is that we needed to reach a source of clean water before we made camp, and the only running water Bëor was sure of was the Mering Stream, which serves as the border between Rohan and Gondor. To ride that far under normal circumstances would have been a stretch; in the ashfall it seemed almost impossible.

When the huge red sun started to set behind our backs I got anxious. How could we continue to press on after night fell? After the dawnless day there would be a moonless, starless night. Even an Elf couldn't see when there was no light.

By great good fortune (or maybe a Tolkien deus ex machina, who knows?) Serindë's sharp eyes made out our objective just as the sun slipped under the horizon.

"Bëor! I see it! The Mering Stream!"

Her horse Nimlith must have smelled the water, because for once Serindë's gelding outstripped Nifredil to reach the stream first. It was pretty puny for a boundary stream—fifteen feet wide tops and no more than knee deep.

When Bëor and his little pony got to the streambank, he told us, "On the other side there is a wood that will shelter us from much of the ashfall, but we must be cautious when our horses cross the stream."

Cautious? I was downright chickenhearted. My heart was in my mouth the whole time. Even a little stream could be perilous if one of the horses put a foot down into a hole or sliced a hoof with a sharp rock. By the time we got to the other side I could barely see my hand in front of my face. Clambering out of the saddle, I kept a tight hold of the reins and let Nifredil drink. My trouserlegs were sopping wet but I didn't care.

After awhile I noticed the faint light of a campfire about twenty feet away, so I pulled the reins gently and inched toward it. Judging by the acorns underfoot, our camp was in an oak wood—but I could barely see the oak trees until I smacked my nose into a lowhanging branch.

The campfire was small but more welcome than you can imagine. Princess Éowyn was crouching near the fire and tossing in dry branches. Elric shuffled out of the darkness and said to me, "Let me feed your horse, Barbarella. She must eat oatcakes tonight, not foul ash-tainted grass."

I handed Elric the reins and he headed off to a nearby oak tree that had several saddlebags hanging from its lower branches. Then I sat down next to Éowyn on the damp ground and she asked me somberly, "Do you think this terrible ash will still be falling tomorrow?"

That's the trouble with being a 'counsellor' instead of a 'handmaiden'—you're supposed to have answers. "I don't know, Éowyn—I didn't study enough geology. But the fact is, we're lucky that the ashfall isn't much worse."

"Worse?" Éowyn echoed incredulously. "What could it be worse than a creeping dust that blacks out the sunlight all day and chokes man and beast alike?"

"At least we weren't suffocated and buried like they were in Pompeii," I said without thinking.

Pulling her cloak around her body, Éowyn said bitterly, "I shall endeavor to be thankful."

I looked around as best I could for the rest of our party. For all of his cuteness, Merry was a seasoned campaigner. He'd wrapped himself in his cloak and was already asleep. Haldred and Bëor seemed to be keeping watch at the edge of the firelight, and Serindë was a few feet away on the other side of the fire.

I couldn't imagine that any of us would volunteer to cook after a day like this, so I asked Serindë hopefully, "Did Captain Haldir give you any lembas bread?"

"Captain Haldir? Where would one such as he get lembas bread?" she asked scornfully. "It is no mere waybread, but a treasure gifted to the Elves by Yavanna herself. Only high elven maidens are allowed to prepare it."

"Oh well, it was just a thought….".

"Fortunately," she continued, ignoring my interruption, "I foresaw before I left Lothlórien that this would be a long and weary trip. So I made a batch of lembas with my own hands."

I hid a smile—although even an Elf couldn't have seen it in the dark. Serindë had quite an ego, but for all of that, she was invaluable.

Unlatching her saddlebag, Serindë took out some little leaf-wrapped parcels and glided over to our side of the fire. As soon as Merry got a whiff of what she was carrying, his eyes flew wide open. "Lembas! You've got lembas!" Serindë gave him one little parcel, which he unwrapped and broke into pieces to share with Éowyn and me.

So this was lembas, the elven bread that Tolkien wrote about. Of course Éowyn had never heard of the stuff so she just took the pieces she was given and nibbled them. I was too hungry to nibble but I did manage to chew slowly and it was, as advertised, very filling. Basically, lembas looks like little pancakes and smells like honey. It reminded me a little of Girl Scout shortbread cookies, and I've always loved Girl Scout shortbread. I would buy at least three boxes every year since the time I was a Girl Scout myself.

What was it like, you must be wondering, to eat lembas, the magical food of the Elves?

Let me tell you a story about my first year in Colorado. Before fall semester started I decided to do some sightseeing, so I took the scenic Cog Railway up to the top of Pike's Peak. I was fresh out of Pennsylvania and Pike's Peak is fourteen thousand feet high, so the altitude hit me hard. My heart raced, I gasped like a fish out of water, and in general I felt pretty freaked-out and rotten. Luckily for me, the gift shop at the summit stocks oxygen tanks for flatlander tourists.

Eating that lembas bread was like inhaling oxygen at the top of Pike's Peak.

At any rate, once we were feeling better—yay for lembas!—Princess Éowyn told me, "Tomorrow will be another long hard ride. You should sleep now, Barbarella."

To which I replied, "Look, Éowyn, this cloak of Serindë's is really warm. Why don't we sleep together and share it?"

That night our two warriors slept on the ground in chilly tough-guy dignity. Elric snuggled up between the horses, and Serindë kept vigil all alone. Éowyn and I shared Serindë's elven cloak with Merry cuddled between us.

Two girls sleeping with a hobbit—but really there was nothing at all kinky about it.

When I woke the next morning, the first thing I noticed was sunlight percolating onto my face through the tree branches. It was weak and puny, but it was sunlight. The ash cloud had at least partially dissipated.

The second thing I noticed was Éowyn's hand slamming down hard on my sternum. "Do not move! Both of you, stay still!"

Naturally I thought, "Orcs! That's it, we're all going to die!" Merry and I immediately squirmed out from under so we could sit up and see what was happening. But it wasn't orcs.

"It's deer!" Merry gasped.

He was absolutely right. Standing on the trail a little deeper into the woods, there was a small herd of deer that didn't seem happy to see us. These deer were a lot larger than the whitetails that graze at night on the suburban lawns of Boulder, and especially, that lead stag was no Bambi. I think he was even bigger than Hasufel! His new spring antlers were short and velvet-covered but you wouldn't want to give him any guff.

Those deer had to have gone through the ashfall the same as us. They were probably refugees from their home forest and scared out of their wits. And we were blocking them from the Mering Stream.

Uh oh.

Silly as it sounds, if those deer had decided to run over us, their sharp hooves could have sliced us into pieces. Trapped on the ground like this, our tactical situation was crummy. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Bëor and Haldred sneaking their swords out of their bedrolls. Serindë had put her back against an oak tree and she too was pulling out her sword.

"Serindë!" I hissed in a stage whisper. "Can't you tell them that we don't want to hurt them?"

"Those are deer, Barbarella!" she hissed back. "I cannot talk to deer!"

Just as our warriors tensed to spring up and fight, I heard crashing hoofbeats and a highpitched 'halloo!' It was Elric! He was charging toward us on Nifredil, and the other horses were charging right behind him.

As soon as those horses came into view, the deer scattered in all directions.

We scrambled onto our mounts at top speed and as soon as I was balanced on the saddle, I threw my arms around Elric and squeezed him tight. "Good job, kid, good job! You did great!"

"That was so strange," Elric said blankly. "I was coming back with the horses from the Mering Stream and I saw those deer just standing there!"

"I thought the Elf was keeping watch," Haldred grumbled. "Why did he not warn us of our peril?"

Serindë clicked her tongue derisively. "Do you consider deer to be perilous, man of Rohan?"

Haldred was a proud warrior of Rohan, so of course he couldn't say, "Yes."

By then we were all completely awake, and nobody wanted to stick around after that. Leaving early was just as well, anyway, because we had a long ride ahead of us. It took no more than five minutes to break camp, and that included passing around the lembas.

For this leg of the trip Bëor actually had to do some guiding. Simple was best in times like these, he said—it would be best to follow the Mering Stream south until it intersected with the Great West Road.

As we rode along, Bëor mused, "I have spent most of my life in the Wild, and I have never seen red deer behave that way before."

"Well, you've never seen a big volcanic ashfall either. I've read that it affects animals, too." Telling him this may have been unwise, because then he wanted to hear more about what I'd read. I certainly couldn't tell him—nobody remembers their lower-level textbooks!

After another hour or so we got back on the road and resumed our original route. The ashfall had blackened its stones and given the green grass a grey blanket, but the world was no longer the horrid alien place it had seemed the day before. Eventually the volcanic ash would work itself into the earth to nourish bright new growth, and once again Middle-earth would look beautiful.

Assuming that we won the war, that is.

According to Princess Éowyn, King Théoden and his Riders were a day, maybe two days behind us. It was much harder to manage a big group than a small company like ours, but the men of Rohan and their warhorses could do almost anything when they set their hearts to it. With the return of normal sunlight we swung into what Princess Éowyn called 'a normal ride.' Sunup to sundown is the normal way that the Rohirrim ride. And so did we.

For the next two days, 'sunup to sundown' seemed a whole lot longer than it ever had before. I still wasn't much of a rider. Thigh muscles that I'd rarely had to use were worked and overworked. Elric helped me as much as he could—and so did Nifredil—but when I first got out of the saddle I could barely walk, and even after a full night's sleep I was still sore. Serindë offered me some sort of fragrant Elf lotion the first night out, and it did help somewhat, but what really kept me going was the horse liniment in Elric's saddlebag.

Hobbling around like that, I can't have been of much use to Princess Éowyn, but like the true friend that she is, she never commented about it. And what was far more amazing, neither Haldred nor Bëor made any snippy remarks about greenhorn handmaidens poking their noses where they didn't belong.

At any rate, they didn't make any of those remarks while I was listening, which was good enough for me.

The lofty White Mountains continued to dominate the skyline south of the Great West Road. By our fourth day out I was sure we'd descended in altitude quite a bit. It was getting warmer, and it was obvious that we were going through a progression of vegetation—possibly into a Mediterranean climate. Bëor was still naming the roadside trees for Elric, and there was one scraggly tree that he identified as an olive.

On the afternoon of the fourth day we reached Amon Dîn (pronounced 'almondine'). This smaller-only-by-comparison hill turned out to be a big deal, because as our tour guide Bëor informed us, "Amon Dîn is the first beacon hill of Gondor. Its beacon tower ever waits to summon Rohan if great need should arise."

Éowyn reined in Windfola so that she and Merry could peer up at the cloud-veiled summit of the hill. "Can the post still be manned? For Rohan has received no message and the need has surely come."

Serindë, who had halted right behind the Princess, glanced up at the hilltop. "Two men are moving up there but they are not building a fire. Clearly, no one in Minas Tirith has given orders for the beacon to be lit."

"It does not matter," Éowyn said proudly, as she stared toward a beacon tower she could not see. "Rohan comes nevertheless."

Later in the afternoon Bëor found us an actual campsite at the side of the road, so we stopped a little early. It was a circular area paved with slate that looked a little like an Interstate rest area. There were metal-grilled concrete firepits, too, and a covered well with a long chain you could tie your own bucket onto.

"If we rise before dawn we can reach the Pelennor Fields by early morning," our Ranger said. "From there it is only a short ride to the White City."

Which was lucky, because as far as supplies go, we were running on fumes. True, we had a Ranger with us, but he had no time to hunt. Still, there was enough food left for one more night. After that it would be the fleshpots of Minas Tirith.

After a hard day's ride I was always pretty sapped. It made me feel like a slacker, but our guys (even poor Merry) had gotten used to setting up camp without the help of the wimpy handmaiden. This meant that I would have a little down time, and I had a great idea about how to use it.

Picking up the stringbag that I'd packed with toiletries, I hobbled over to Princess Éowyn.

"Let's go over to the well so I can wash your hair," I said to her. "If you ride into the White City with your long blonde hair streaming down your back, you'll be the perfect vision of a beautiful warrior princess. Believe me, it will make a big difference in the way you're treated later."

"Surely such a little thing will not matter in this time of war," Éowyn protested.

"Surely? Well, there's one thing that I'm sure of, Princess. That the men of Gondor—are men!"

That shut her up.

Éowyn was kneeling in front of the well and I was scrubbing her hair with lavender soap when Merry walked by with an armful of sticks. Getting an eyeful of what we were doing, he abruptly dropped the firewood and looked stricken. Sometimes hobbits come off as a bit Victorian so I thought for a second that viewing a woman at her toilette had freaked him out.

Then he sighed, "Oh, I am in so much trouble. I should never have come along with you."

Even dripping shampoo, Éowyn still looked dignified. "Courage, Merry. Only bold deeds can win renown."

He shook his head lugubriously. "Courage has nothing to do with it. This is worse than anything Pippin ever did. Gandalf is going to kill me when he finds out that I rode off with two girls to fight a Ringwraith!"

I was sorely tempted to tell Merry that he'd ridden off with **three** girls, not two—but that would have been cruel. Instead I suggested, "Let's worry about the Nazgûl first and Gandalf second. Is there anything more that you can tell us about the Ringwraiths, Merry?"

Sitting down on a nearby rock, Merry sighed once more. "I have been thinking about that the whole time that we were riding. I can tell you that the Ringwraiths are more fearsome than any orc or troll. They are constantly surrounded by a miasma of evil visions and when they screech, the sound fills the heart with terror. Finally, even though you slay them, they rise again to kill, animated by the dark sorcery of Sauron."

I glanced over at Éowyn's face, which had set into grim lines. Merry had probably told her about all this before—but it hadn't improved with the retelling.

After a slow start, Merry was beginning to get into his story with a certain morbid enthusiasm. "Did I tell you about the poisonous Morgul blades that they bear? One of my friends was struck with a Morgul blade and for days he was wracked with crushing agony."

I had to admit that I'd asked for this—but it was really turning into a morale-killer. "Your friend—he didn't die, did he?" I demanded.

"No—no, he didn't," Merry admitted almost reluctantly.

"And as far as the terror and the evil visions—you went through it all and you got better. If Éowyn doesn't defeat the Witch-King, no one will. She's the Prophecy Girl."

Dripping only a little, Éowyn rose to her feet. "You can trust Barbarella's Second Sight, Merry. Did she not lead us through the darkness all during the Dawnless Day?"

I was about to open my mouth to disagree when Merry nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, that is true. She must be someone special if she can do that."

Quickly wrapping her wet hair in one of Elric's horse towels, Éowyn grasped Merry's shoulder. "We shall ride to glory together. Do not fear the Nazgûl—or Gandalf!"

Merry picked up his sticks and the two of them left together, but I didn't move for a while. I was thinking about what Éowyn had said. It had never occurred to me, but technically she was right. Nifredil had been lead horse for most of the 'Dawnless Day.' Had Serindë actually believed that my so-called 'Second Sight' could guide us through a landscape without light? And if so, why?

Commandeering the rest of the soap and water, I gave my own hair a quick wash, then headed back to camp and discovered that Merry had put together a stew from what remained of our provisions. I'd always thought that Sam was supposed to be the best cook in the Fellowship, but Merry's cooking smelled heavenly. If Sam was a better cook than Merry, I definitely wanted to sample his recipes.


	11. The Welcoming Committee

**Usual disclaimers and thanks**: Nothing is mine, etc., etc.

Thanks to my betas, eekfrenzy and Rose—and thanks also to my reviewers.

Reviews are my only reward. I like them a lot.

By now Minas Tirith is really getting close! (That should make Hugo the Diabolical Penguin happy.) For the Merry-fans amongst us (and who isn't) this time Merry is a real part of the team—not just hauled up by the scruff at the last minute and dragged along. He's a hobbit with a mission!

**Chapter 11 The Welcoming Committee**

The next morning, as he'd promised, Bëor woke us well before dawn, when the eastern sky was barely grey. We dressed hastily, doused the coals of the campfire, and washed down Serindë's last two lembas cakes with cold water.

Since we were going to Minas Tirith as representatives of Rohan, Princess Éowyn carefully tied Haldred's messenger tabard over her hauberk to cover the White Tree of Gondor. She was just about to mount Windfola when Serindë came up with a long scabbard in her hands and presented it to Éowyn.

"A great quest requires a great sword, Princess."

Startled, Princess Éowyn unsheathed Serindë's blade and held it up before her. It was made of a strange pale metal and was covered with runes. Even in the pre-dawn, the sword seemed to glisten.

"Isn't that a barrow blade?" Merry asked nervously.

"This blade is no barrow spoil—it is a sword of Gondolin," Serindë answered frostily. "The Elf who wielded it against Saruman's army now needs it no more."

As Éowyn swung the sword in the air, it sang like a plucked harp. "I cannot take your sword—it is too rich a gift."

Serindë stared at Éowyn. "Princess, if you would succeed in the task you have set for yourself, you can refuse no advantage. Lord Aragorn too was offered an ancient blade by an Elf, but he did not reject it."

Embarrassed by the comparison to a man she considered a hero, Éowyn resheathed the sword and stowed it in her bedroll. "Then I will take it. What can I do to thank you for this great gift, Serindë?"

The Elf's reply was terse. "Win."

That issue settled, we mounted up and moved out to Minas Tirith.

It had gotten pretty warm by the time we reached Mount Mindolluin, the last peak of the White Mountains. We crested one more bump in the road and we all stopped at once, because there it was—the White City. Serindë and Bëor had seen it before, but the rest of us gawked like rubes. As Merry put it, "Oh! Oh! Oh!"

Minas Tirith is shaped like a giant multi-layered wedding cake. Long before it became the capital of Gondor, it was a guard tower on top of a hill, and as the population grew, the inhabitants kept erecting more walls in concentric circles. Gondorians sure do love to pile up massive heaps of stone, and this was the biggest pile I'd ever seen.

Between our company and the city of Minas Tirith lay the Pelennor Fields—about seven or eight miles of empty prairie grassland. The whole city—fortress really—was buttoned up behind the walls. In the U.S. there would have been subdivisions sprawling into the foothills, and even in Rohan, where they're used to being pounced on by orcs, we would at least have seen horses grazing and farmers tilling the spring fields. But here, nothing.

Was the White City dead, or had its people just given up?

As I was wondering all this, Bëor pointed out a large closed gate set in the middle of the frowning stone walls. "That is the Great Gate of Minas Tirith. We shall arrive there very soon."

Yes, very soon indeed. Little did we know…

The seven of us had ridden about a third of the way into the Pelennor Fields when we spotted a group of horsemen riding toward us from the east lickety-split. At first I was scared, but Serindë said calmly, "The riders wear the White Tree of Gondor."

Princess Éowyn made a quick command decision. "Then they are our friends and allies. We shall go forward to meet them."

We'd gone about halfway to Minas Tirith when we heard yells and screams and saw another group of riders chasing after the first one. I recognized the gait of the pursuers' mounts instantly. If you've seen warg riders once, you never forget them.

"Ride for the city, everybody!" Éowyn shouted. "Ride as fast as you can! Stop for nothing!"

She didn't need to tell us twice!

Elric was clinging to Nifredil's neck like a jockey, frantically urging her to run. As the horse shot forward I screamed, "Faster! Faster! Make her go faster!"

"Don't fall off!" Elric yelled back at me. "Whatever you do, Barbarella, don't fall off!"

Spitting out Elric's hairbraid, I gasped and squeezed his chest. As I bounced and jostled, I wondered whether I'd fall off at the next jump. Maybe in my panic I'd stave in Nifredil's ribs with my knees!

In a flick of a glance, I saw Éowyn and Merry galloping alongside us on Windfola. Haldred and Bëor were right behind us, and Serindë was lagging at the rear. Our horses could run the distance, but Minas Tirith was so far away! And what if the defenders didn't open the gate?

From somewhere behind us there was a terrible, bonechilling scream, and I did what I should never have thought of doing—I turned my head and looked back.

This time the orcs had dragons. No, not dragons. Pterodactyls—evil pterodactyls. Not that it mattered. Their wingspans must have been nearly thirty feet wide!

A flock of monstrous flying reptiles hovered ominously over the fleeing Gondorians. Even as I watched, one of the dreadful creatures banked swiftly and snatched a rider right off his horse. The poor guy struggled madly in midair for a few seconds and then the pterodactyl let him fall to the ground from about forty feet up.

We were cooked. Oh, we were cooked. Those things were so super-fast that they could easily pick us off one by one.

Cooked or no, I yelled, "Faster! Faster!" at Elric. We couldn't just give up. As Nifredil galloped even harder, I saw out of the corner of my eye that Serindë's horse was dropping back and she was pulling out her shortbow. No, no, Serindë—don't stop to shoot! It's suicide!

In that moment the Great Gate of Minas Tirith opened wide and a big white horse and its white-robed rider charged out toward us. It was Gandalf! Gandalf was coming to our rescue!

"Fly! Fly, you fools!" he shouted as he rode past. None of us paused to wave at him.

Gandalf pointed his staff toward the pterodactyls and zapped them with a beam of some sort of magic light. I don't think it was lasers or lightning bolts, because none of the pterodactyls fell down all crispy. But they started to fly off, and I'll settle for that.

Our little group barrelled pell-mell through the open gateway in much less time than Bëor must have anticipated. I got a jangled glimpse of a courtyard full of soldiers wearing platemail, pale stone apartment buildings with more soldiers staring down at us from their balconies, and—oops!—a big equestrian statue looming right ahead of us.

I really, really didn't want to crash into that statue! Elric yanked at the reins and we swerved left just as Princess Éowyn swerved right. Finally Nifredil came to a dead halt on the far side of the stone horse.

Oh, this was a mess! My heart was pounding so hard that I almost couldn't breathe. Before I had a chance to catch my breath, three soldiers ran toward us. One swept me out of the saddle onto the ground, while the other two grabbed at Nifredil's reins. Elric was still clinging to Nifredil's neck, so she didn't buck or bite.

Unlike most Gondorians, the guy who'd grabbed me was very blond. His unlined face and feathery little mustache made him look too young to be a soldier, but I'd be getting a nice crop of bruises from slamming into his steel breastplate. Glaring up at him, I gasped, "Hey!"

Puzzled, the young soldier pulled his hands away from my waist and stared down at me in astonishment. He took a few steps back and cried out to his comrades, "It's a woman!"

"No, really?" Yes, I was wearing boy's clothes, and yes, my tunic and trousers were grubby, but still!

"What kind of woman rides into Minas Tirith in the middle of an attack by the Enemy?" he demanded incredulously.

Like that was the most important thing happening at that moment!

Of course none of his comrades were paying any attention to us. After all, Minas Tirith **was** in the middle of an orc attack! I looked around frantically for the rest of my companions. At least I knew where Elric was—he hadn't moved from the saddle. It wasn't hard to spot Haldred—he was half a head taller than the soldiers surrounding him, and Bëor was standing next to him. But where was Éowyn?

Before I could panic, Princess Éowyn strode toward us leading her horse, with Merry safely ensconced on Windfola's back. My poor soldier's jaw dropped. Another woman, and this one in armor!

My boss took in the situation in a glance. "I am Princess Éowyn of Rohan. I thank you for your assistance to my counsellor Barbarella. What is your name, soldier?"

Rattled, he replied, "My name is Beregond, Princess. I am a soldier of the Citadel."

Only Serindë was still not present and accounted for, and I'd last seen her doing something really stupid. That's when our Elf rode toward us through the crowd, bow strung and ready on her back. For the first time since I'd met her, Serindë's elven enchantment was blasting out full force, bright and beautiful and merciless. She was an Elf on a mission of vengeance and her aura felt like Death. Around her the soldiers of Gondor were falling back to the left and right.

Beregond's jaw dropped but he stood his ground, even when Serindë jumped from the saddle right in front of us and announced matter-of-factly, "I shot down a taerodrake."

"A what?" Éowyn said blankly. The word meant nothing to me, either, which was kind of odd.

"One of the flying creatures that pursued us. It is the name that Barbarella was shrieking, anyway."

If she wasn't going to bring up the nature of her aura, I wouldn't either. "Don't you Elves have a name for them?"

"I have never heard of these flyers before but clearly they are Sauron's creatures." Then Serindë confided to Éowyn and me, "Some of them bore Black Riders on their backs. Not the one that I killed, unfortunately."

So now the Nazgûl were airborne! Before I had time to let that fact sink in, the Gondorian riders we'd seen on the plain came clattering into the courtyard. Gandalf was riding in the lead, holding up his white power-staff, and Pippin was perched right in front of him. But oh, there were so many horses that had no riders!

In all that hubbub, I barely heard the sound of the Great Gate slamming shut, but I did hear one man loud and clear above all the others—an auburn-haired officer whose voice had the carrying capacity of an opera singer. "The orcs broke through our defenses. They've taken the bridge and the west bank. Battalions of them are crossing the river even now."

Under his breath, Beregond muttered, "It is as the Lord Denethor predicted! Long has he foreseen this doom!"

After everything that Rohan had been through, that sort of talk annoyed me. I whipped my head around to face him and snapped, "You've got a cute face but a bad attitude."

He flinched, but made no answer. What possible justification could a brave soldier offer for defeatist talk like that?

Beregond wasn't the only one who reacted to my statement. When Gandalf heard my voice, he reached me in three quick strides. "Barbarella! What are you all doing here?"

Why was he asking me that? Nobody had put me in charge!

Before Princess Éowyn could explain, Serindë replied sharply, "We came to fight. What else?"

Gandalf scowled at her and she scowled back. "I have no time for this, Serindë. I must speak with Prince Faramir to discover what has been happening since last I came here. I will speak with you later."

"You may say what you will," she answered coolly. "What is done is done."

Waving one hand in dismissal, Gandalf stomped back to accost Placido Domingo Junior—Prince Faramir-who was talking softly but animatedly to Pippin.

From the tightening of Éowyn's lips, I could tell that she didn't appreciate Gandalf's brush-off. She sucked it up and moved on. "We came here with a purpose of our own. We need not wait to speak to Gandalf."

Merry had been staring over at his friend Pippin. When Éowyn said this, his face fell but he said nothing. Perched upon Shadowfax, Pippin was easy enough to see, but it didn't look like Pippin had even noticed Merry in the midst of this great crowd.

Éowyn said to Beregond, "I would have you tell Lord Denethor that Princess Éowyn of Rohan wishes to speak to him at once on a matter of importance."

Alarm flickered in Beregond's eyes, but he replied, "I shall do what you ask, but it may take a little time."

Éowyn considered this answer for an instant. "Then first find a stable for our horses. They have been ridden hard all the way from Edoras."

"That can be done more speedily," Beregond said with an expression of relief. He looked to the left and the right, but every soldier in the vicinity was obviously far too busy to run an errand for somebody else's princess. I was wondering who he was searching for when Beregond whistled up at a dark-haired young boy who was leaning out of an upper window. "Bergil! Bergil!"

Bergil, whoever he was, shinnied down a drainpipe and ran quickly in our direction. When he reached us, Beregond tousled his hair and said, "Bergil, you young rascal, I have a job for you. You must take our guests from Rohan to the mansion of Lord Húrin and find a place for their horses in his stable."

Turning to Princess Éowyn, he explained, "My son will make sure that your horses are well cared for. Bergil and I are both members of Lord Húrin's household."

For a couple of seconds Elric and Bergil eyed each other like a pair of terriers meeting for the first time. Elric, boy-warrior of Rohan, proudly drew himself up and stood on his dignity. The 'young rascal', on the other hand, seemed to enjoy the idea of taking charge of a group of grownups. Bergil grinned up at Beregond, then said to us, "Let's go!"

And that was basically that. We'd been chased to the very gates of Minas Tirith by warg-riding orcs and killer pterodactyls, but apparently, this hardly merited comment. Nothing to see here, folks, move along.

What sort of crazy place was this, anyway?

Young Bergil took us away from the Great Gate and led us down a cobblestone road that reminded me of the tiny streets in Philadelphia's Old City. In the beginning it had probably been planned as a two-lane thoroughfare but so many crates and barrels were crammed on both sides of the street that a good bit of the right-of-way was obstructed.

By then it was mid-day, but there weren't many people around. I suspect that the 'taerodrake' story had spread through the populace and that everyone was afraid to go outdoors. From time to time one of the few pedestrians would stop and stare at us—particularly at the two redheads, Haldred and me.

Most of the women were swaddled up in black robes like Italian Madonnas, while most of the men wore leather or steel armor. Bergil fit right in, but his father's fair hair made him look like an Ugly Duckling. The people of Minas Tirith look more Mediterranean than anything, with brunette hair and dark liquid eyes.

For the first time since I'd shown up in Middle-earth, I was seeing multi-story townhouses and apartment buildings. Minas Tirith is a walled city, and as is usual in walled cities, the inhabitants had built their dwellings vertically—up to five stories high, I'd guess, which is probably all the stories that you'd want if you hadn't invented elevators.

Éowyn was striding along beside me, and these tall buildings seemed to make her a bit claustrophobic. Well, of course they would! Nothing in Rohan could have prepared the Rohirrim for a place like this. We were passing by a tall marble edifice that had a rooftop garden with potted trees, and Éowyn stopped to stare at it. "In all your travels, Barbarella, have you ever seen such a wondrous city, or such a large one?"

Large? At a distance Minas Tirith looked gigantic, but in terms of square footage it wasn't terribly big. From what I'd seen it wasn't heavily populated, either—not in the middle of the siege, anyway.

"Minas Tirith is bigger than Hershey, I'll give you that. It's about the size of the city I went to school in." Tripping over a broken cobblestone, I muttered, "Boulder has better roads, though."

Éowyn tore her eyes away from the tree-topped building and smiled with relief. Once she knew that Minas Tirith didn't make her 'counsellor' feel small, she didn't have to feel small either. From the way Haldred was rolling his eyes, I doubt that he really believed my 'tall tale' about Boulder, but at least he was able to see that I wasn't overawed. And Elric? I'd said it, so my kid believed it.

Sure, Minas Tirith is an incredible city. I can't imagine how its builders managed to pile up those tremendous stone walls without any power tools, and the city structure as a whole is beautiful and imposing. This wasn't my first capital city, though. If you ever get to Denver, Colorado, you'll see that the dome on the capitol building is actually covered with gold. Like the Golden Hall, only much bigger.

Later I found out that the cobblestone road that we were walking on circles through all seven levels of the city. Each level is surrounded by a thick granite wall and you can only enter the higher levels through a constantly-guarded gate.

That sounds kind of paranoid, I know. But the meaning of 'Minas Tirith' is 'Tower of Guard.' Mordor is nearly at its doorstep. It's not paranoia if they're actually out to get you!

After a few more blocks we entered a flagstone plaza that was full of people—men, women, and children who were milling around aimlessly, sprawling out on sacks, eating food they'd bought from pushcarts, or sleeping on rush mats rolled out on the cold stone.

It was clear enough what these people were doing in the plaza. That's Castle Defense 101. In times of war you collect the people outside the wall and bring them inside. Remembering the Battle of Helm's Deep, I just hoped they'd brought enough food. But who were they?

At first the refugees seemed so normal to me—a twenty-first century American—that I had to look twice to realize how abnormal they really were for Middle-earth. This particular crowd was…multicultural.

Nobody in Middle-Earth really likes foreigners, but that's what these people were—many different kinds of foreigners. Burly Viking-types wearing leather aprons and not much else, bearded sailors in white linen uniforms, swarthy men and women draped in cotton robes. Once I even saw a black woman covered head to toe with a scarlet burnoose and veils.

They'd turned the area into some kind of open-air market. Little clapboard booths in the middle of the plaza offered wares that were probably foreign also and were mostly unfamiliar to me. One booth had several strings of dried fish hanging from its awning. They didn't look appetizing and I doubt that they were sanitary but I was still glad to see them. We wouldn't be starving just yet.

As we shoved our way through the throng, I noticed that many of the permanent shops along the inside wall were boarded up but that a few were still open for business. Apparently some of the local merchants were also trying to scrape a little profit out of the general catastrophe.

When we got there, I found that Lord Húrin's residence may be centuries old, but it's really just a fancy marble-faced townhouse. It's five stories tall, although it's only about forty feet wide, so 'mansion' really is a good word for it.

Our ultimate goal was Lord Húrin's stable, which takes up half the ground floor of his townhouse. Not every Lord in Minas Tirith keeps a stable, but according to Bergil, it's a point of pride for Lord Húrin to ride his own horseflesh. When Bergil led us inside, we found stalls enough for a dozen horses, but only three horses in the stable, and none of them were warhorses. A lone stableboy was shoveling straw, and I could tell by Elric's bristling that he didn't like the stableboy's technique one little bit.

Lord Húrin's stable had fine stone floors and stalls with oaken walls, but it was chilly and dark. While Éowyn gazed doubtfully around this cavernous place, Elric whispered to her in Rohirric, "I can fix it up some."

Éowyn responded quietly in the same language, "We will have to make do."

Understanding their expressions if not their words, Bergil explained defensively, "The men of Lord Húrin's household have all been summoned to arms and most of the rest of the household was sent south for safety. But I have no mother to protect so I am going to stay with my father. When I grow up I want to be just like him, a valiant soldier of the Citadel."

It occurred to me that this was a good time to clear up a point that had bothered me. "Bergil, your father said that he would arrange for Princess Éowyn to speak with Lord Denethor. How exactly will he do that?"

It was a tough question for an eight-year-old boy to answer, but after Bergil considered it for a while, he answered, "I think he will go to Tower Guard Headquarters on the seventh level and ask his commander, Captain Ascar, what he should do."

I went to a state university; I know how bureaucracy works. Pulling Éowyn away a few paces, I said in Rohirric, "I don't care for the sound of that. We could sit here forever waiting for your request to go through channels."

Princess Éowyn is no stranger to delay either. "I do not care for it either," she said softly, then spoke to Bergil in Westron. "I appreciate your father's assistance, but I wish to speak to his Captain myself. Can you take me to the seventh level?"

Bergil gulped hard. "If that is your wish, Princess."

"It is," she answered. "Haldred, Elric, put our horses in stalls and see that they are fed. We can walk to the seventh level."

"Ummm…" Grabbing one of my saddlebags, I sidled into an empty stall. "If I may give counsel to my Princess in private for a few moments?"

By the time that Éowyn followed me into the stall I was already unpacking her best gown. "Give me just a few minutes," I bargained desperately, "and I can dress you to look like a princess."

"Is this really necessary?" Princess Éowyn demanded.

"You can never undo a first impression." Éowyn's blonde hair, although a bit tangled, looked pretty good—but she'd been wearing those clothes and that sweaty leather armor for five days.

Unfortunately, hauling off armor is not something they teach you in handmaiden's school. Not that I ever went to one! Éowyn's leather armor was molded to her body and its fastenings were so stiff that I couldn't release them. In one minute I broke three fingernails.

This was bad. If I couldn't get the job done quickly, Éowyn wouldn't want to stick around. I was about to blow up in sheer frustration when I noticed that Serindë was watching us over the door of the horse stall.

"Let me handle that."

Without waiting to be invited, she stalked inside, set down a bucket of water, and silently began to undo the silver frogs on Éowyn's leather hauberk. Éowyn was so frozen with shock that she couldn't open her mouth to protest. Neither could I. Here was an Elf of Lothlórien acting as—well, as a menial—to a mere mortal!

"I was a handmaiden for more years than your House has existed, Daughter of Eorl, so I know what I am doing," Serindë said calmly. "You too should put on other clothing, Barbarella. Those trousers will not do for a meeting with the Ruling Steward of Gondor."

Uh, yes, that was exactly right. Frozen shock turned to frenzied activity when I realized how nasty I looked. With lightning speed, I skinned out of my boy's clothes, washed up in Serindë's waterbucket, and changed into my nearly-clean green linen dress. If I'd had a watch, I'm sure I would have clocked in at fifteen minutes.

Serindë beat me easily. In less than ten minutes she managed to clean up Éowyn, dress her in the gold-trimmed brown wool gown that I'd packed, and put up her hair nicely. You can't beat a professional.


	12. No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

**Usual disclaimers and thanks**: Nothing is mine, etc., etc.

Thanks to my betas, eekfrenzy and Rose—and thanks also to my reviewers.

Reviews are my only reward. I like them a lot.

Those who have read Lord of the Rings will remember that Beregond was a significant minor character in the book. He appears in the movie too, but during the filming his part got whittled down and whittled down until finally they gave him a different name in the credits.

Well, I'm whittling him back up.

**Chapter 12 No Good Deed Goes Unpunished**

Once Éowyn and I were all gussied up, we had to argue like mad to get the men to come along. Those big chickens all had excuses why they shouldn't go. Bëor was sure that his Chieftain wouldn't want him to meet Lord Denethor, and Haldred couldn't see why he should go, when he had no messages for the Steward from King Théoden. Elric begged to stay with the horses, and even Merry was lukewarm about getting involved with diplomacy. Serindë said nothing one way or another. But a Princess needs a retinue, so I gave them all my best crusty looks and virtually frogmarched everyone out the stable door.

I suppose that Elric did have a reasonably good excuse, but tough.

All that we had to do was get to the seventh level and find Beregond's Captain. It sounds easy enough, except that we had to take the long way up. There is no short way to the White Tower. For security reasons, the city gates aren't even aligned, so you have to keep going back and forth to ascend through the levels of the city. First we retraced our steps until we reached the first gate, a big frowning metal-toothed structure with equally frowning guards. All of them knew Bergil, though, so they were willing to let us through.

Once you get past that gate you climb up a steep stone ramp to the second level. On the second level the pedestrians were dressed a lot better, but there still weren't many of them. I revised down my estimate of the city's population—maybe it wasn't any bigger than Hershey after all. Or maybe half the population had already fled.

We passed a couple of marble public buildings and a row of townhouses on our way to the tunnel that cuts through the big mountain spur that slices into the city. (That spur is definitely a Point of Geological Interest.) Since Minas Tirith has no electric lights, the tunnel was illuminated by oil lanterns—or should have been illuminated, because about half of the lanterns hadn't been lit. Somebody wasn't paying enough attention to basic maintenance.

From then on it was gate, ramp, reverse direction, street—you get the picture. Lather, rinse, repeat. It took about an hour to reach our goal on the seventh level.

The Headquarters of the Tower Guard is marble inside and out—pretty fancy décor for a glorified cop shop. The men on duty were all grey-eyed and hawkfaced, with dark hair and beards—the normal look for a Minas Tirith soldier, except for the blond-haired Beregond. These crusty types probably wouldn't have let our party through if it hadn't been for Bergil—although Princess Éowyn's royal bearing might have had an impact.

We asked to see Beregond's Captain and were directed to a room in which a middle-aged officer with an eyepatch was examining maps. He looked up at us, puzzled (apparently the memo about us hadn't hit his inbox), and growled at Merry, "What are you, little man?"

"Haven't you ever seen a halfling before? My name is Merry Brandybuck." Merry answered stoutly. "My cousin Pippin came to Minas Tirith a few days ago with Gandalf."

The officer with the eyepatch frowned. Clearly the Gandalf connection was not a plus for him. "Gandalf's companion is your cousin?"

Éowyn stepped forward and said imperiously, "Are you Captain Ascar? I am Princess Éowyn of Rohan, and I wish to speak with your Ruling Steward on a matter of great importance. This request I made earlier today to your soldier Beregond."

"Beregond? Hmmmm! We'll see about that." Scowling, Captain Ascar slapped a silver bell on his desk and an orderly even younger than Beregond walked into the room. "Send Beregond in here immediately."

As the young man rushed off, Captain Ascar told Éowyn, "Lord Denethor has a ceremony of fealty and a military council scheduled for noon, but I think he can fit you in before lunch."

Wow. The Ruling Steward could see us before lunch. The condescension was absolutely dripping. I asked through clenched teeth, "Are there any local courtesies or protocols that we should know about?"

"Our Ruling Steward meets with many foreigners and understands that they have different ways," Captain Ascar said with a shrug. "Simply show respect."

At this point Beregond hurried into the captain's office. He paled a bit when he saw us waiting for him.

Captain Ascar stared hard at poor Beregond, then cradled his fingers together. "Beregond, you are to escort Princess Éowyn and her party to meet with Lord Denethor in the White Tower. It seems fitting to assign a man of your lineage to escort a Princess of Rohan."

"Yes, sir," Beregond said tonelessly.

"One more thing. No outsider may carry a bow into the presence of the Steward." Our eyes went to Serindë when Ascar said this. (Bëor, prudently, had left his bow in the stable.)

Serindë unslung her shortbow from her back and said to Beregond, "Then you must carry it for me."

Beregond took the weapon without argument and cradled it gingerly in his arms. "Come now, I will take you to the White Tower."

On the way out, Beregond stopped briefly in another office and deposited Bergil with the Officer of the Day. It occurred to me to wonder—was Beregond more worried about what his son might do? Or what his Steward might do?

The rest of us he led to the Tower of Ecthelion—also known as 'the White Tower.' It's an enormous piece of civic architecture that dwarfs all other buildings in Minas Tirith. But of course, it's no Twin Towers.

To get to the White Tower you cross the Plaza of the White Tree, a grassy courtyard with a bone-white dead tree standing in the exact middle of it. As if it was something precious, the White Tree was guarded by six guardsmen in shiny armor and helmets with metal wings. They stood as silent as Beefeaters, seemingly oblivious to all of the people passing by—which basically amounted to us.

You would think that in time of war the Minas Tirith center of government would be bustling with military officers and bureaucrats, but the Plaza was nearly as dead as the Tree. Nobody was there except for the Beefeaters.

The lawn looked very nice, though.

Beregond escorted us solemnly past the Plaza guards, then past more guards who stood at attention in front of the door to the Tower, and finally down a cold marble corridor illuminated by white candles in golden wall sconces. From the inside, the Tower felt like an embellished municipal building, almost like a courthouse. I found myself peering down the side corridors and looking for the Jury Assembly Rooms.

At the end of the long corridor there was a pair of perfectly-smooth metal doors. I have no idea what kind of metal they were made of, but certainly not iron, steel, or brass. If they were bronze, they certainly had a funny pale gold color. When Beregond pushed the doors open they reverberated with a strange loud _clung!_

The high-ceilinged chamber that Beregond led us into had to be the Throne Room. An ornately carved throne was positioned in the center of a high dais at the end of the room—but the Throne was empty.

Maybe the Steward had stepped out to lunch?

Beregond came to a dead halt and announced loudly, "Lord Denethor, Princess Éowyn of Rohan would speak with the Ruling Steward of Gondor."

Only then did I realize that the man we'd come to see was slumped in a little chair next to that massive throne.

My first impression of Denethor was that he looked like a judge. Not one of those TV judges who smile into the camera—a hanging judge, maybe, or one of the Old English judges who sat in the Star Chamber. His long, trailing robes were black and trimmed with velvet, his lanky hair was straggling and grey, and his pale arrogant face was set in perpetual frown lines.

The Ruling Steward raised a jewel-encrusted goblet to his thin lips and drank slowly, glaring at us all the while. We Seven were standing in a chevron like a flock of Canada geese—first Éowyn, then Serindë and me, and finally the four guys in the rear. It was probably the only time they'd ever wanted to let the girls go first.

"So Rohan arrives at last," Lord Denethor said in a world-weary voice. "As the situation now stands, I would much rather welcome your stout warriors than a young princess."

Wow! What a slap in the face! Denethor's casual insult to visiting royalty rocked Éowyn back on her heels, but she goes white with shock instead of red so she still managed to look regal.

When Éowyn stepped forward to confront Denethor, she truly looked like a princess. Her blonde hair was arranged on the top of her head like a shining crown and her gold-trimmed dress glittered in the candlelight. But most of all, she had the proud expression of a daughter of Eorl. Éowyn said with dignity, "Our stout warriors you will see in two days. King Théoden rides here even now at the head of all his warriors."

Denethor shook his head and spat, "Two days! Two days may be too late."

"And they may not," she answered, doggedly ignoring his continued lack of respect.

There was one way we could scotch this 'young princess' business once and for all. "Show him the King's letter, Éowyn," I hissed out of the side of my mouth. She'd allowed me to read King Théoden's letter in the course of our journey, so I knew that it was exactly what we needed.

Éowyn nodded grimly. "You counsel truly, Barbarella. Now if ever we must be bold." Pulling the parchment from her belt pouch, she stepped forward and handed it to the grey old man in the little chair. "These are the words of the King of Rohan, Lord Denethor."

Haldred gulped. He knew that whatever Théoden had intended when he wrote that 'she was to speak for him in his absence', it wasn't this. But as the saying goes, it's easier to obtain forgiveness than permission.

As Éowyn stepped back, Denethor unfolded the scroll and read it swiftly, then rolled it up and used it to tap the arm of his chair. "Very well, I accept you as the King of Rohan's ambassador. Tell me, since you speak with the voice of King Théoden—for what purpose do the King and his warriors ride to the White City?"

His words made absolutely no sense to Éowyn. "For what purpose should they come, save to honor the Oath of Eorl and fight for the Stewards of Gondor at their time of need?"

Rising to his feet, Denethor glared at us with barely-concealed rage. "Aragorn the Ranger fought as your King's ally at Helm's Deep. If King Théoden comes to Minas Tirith to support this Ranger's pretensions to the throne of Gondor, then he is my enemy. For the rule of Gondor is mine and no other man's!"

In the twinkling of an eye, the negotiation had blown up in our faces. One misstep and it would be the dungeon for us all. Not to mention the crisis that Théoden would face when he showed up with his Riders.

Why hadn't Beregond warned us that the Steward was off his meds?

Stunned, we all stood there with no idea what we should say or do. Well, most of us had no idea…

Serindë stared arrogantly at the infuriated Steward. "I am Serindë of Lothlórien. In a time such as this, Lord Denethor, you do ill to disdain any help whatsoever, for doom is lapping at your very gates. To refuse it is folly."

Seemingly unfazed by our lady Elf, Denethor glared back. "Yes, folly indeed it would be to disdain help in such a time—unless it was offered to fulfill another's ambition."

Serindë shook her head disdainfully. "I came here to fight Sauron, the Dark Enemy of us all. Aragorn has long been a friend to the Golden Wood and Lady Galadriel may indeed wish him to become King of Gondor—or she may not. But as for me, I say that if he does not have the will to win the throne for himself, he should not have it."

You really can't believe that an Elf would lie, so Lord Denethor couldn't say anything to that. He half-smirked at Éowyn and changed the subject. "An Elf of Lothlórien! You have brought some strange companions to my city, Princess."

I had to agree with him on that one. An Elf, a Ranger, a hobbit, and a LOTR fan's daughter—it sounded like some sort of bar joke! Luckily for me, Éowyn was the one who had to explain us to Denethor.

"Serindë is one of the elven archers who fought alongside the Rohirrim at Helm's Deep. The Ranger Bëor was offered to me as a guide for our trip to Minas Tirith. Merry Brandybuck is my esquire. He is a halfling who comes from a land called the Shire."

"I have heard of the Shire," the Steward muttered testily. "Gandalf too arrived with a halfling companion."

Clearly, a relationship with Gandalf wasn't a selling point with Lord Denethor either, so I was quite relieved when Merry didn't mention that Pippin was his cousin.

"And Barbarella is my friend and my counsellor—" Éowyn began.

'Counsellor' may have been the wrong word to use, because when Denethor heard it his eyes flashed like steel and his lips pursed up as if he'd drunk vinegar. "What counsel does this woman give to you? Is she not the minion of Lord Elrond, who would see the Ranger Aragorn crowned King of Gondor?"

Wowzer! Not again! Princess Éowyn would have defended me—to the death, if necessary—but this fight was mine. I stepped forward and said as firmly as I could, "I don't know who told you that tale, Lord Denethor, but I am not and never have been a servant of Lord Elrond. That story is a lie that was made up by Gríma Wormtongue, who lied about everyone in the court of Meduseld who was loyal to the King."

You can't just say, 'I'm innocent.' Every criminal says that. You need to give your accuser enough of your backstory so that you sound plausible. "Lord Denethor, I arrived in Rohan as a castaway from a land so far off that not even the Ranger Aragorn has ever heard of it. Why should an outsider like me concern herself over which of two strangers rules a country in which I have no bloodkin?"

"You were an outsider in Rohan!" Denethor spat out. "Is it of no concern to you who their King is?"

I shrugged. "I didn't pick Rohan's King either, but Théoden is a good man, and the Rohirrim seem to like him well enough."

My nonchalant answer stymied him, and for a moment I hoped that Denethor was done with me. Instead he smoothed his robe, steepled wrinkled fingers, and smiled craftily. Uh oh—he'd thought of something.

"If you are from such a far-off land that no one here has heard of it, your people must speak in a different tongue than our own," he answered unctuously. "Speak to me in your native language, Barbarella."

That wasn't so bad. You had to give the old bird some credit—he'd picked a good test.

"Certainly, sir." This should be a slam dunk—although I didn't dare slip into Westron by mistake. Verse that rhymed was probably safest, but which poem should I pick? Oh, yeah, of course.

At least this time I wouldn't have to sing. I cleared my throat and recited in English:

_Oh say can you see by the dawn's early light  
What so proudly we hailed by the twilight's last gleaming?  
Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous fight  
O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming?_

Denethor was listening closely, nodding and mouthing some of the phonemes. He actually seemed quite intrigued by my little recitation. After I had finished, he remarked in an almost collegial tone, "I have never heard of your language either but some of its words sound familiar. I believe it may be related to Rohirric."

Without thinking, I dropped into shop talk. "I'm sure you're right. The two languages probably branched off a thousand years or so ago but as you heard, many of the nouns still sound similar—for example, 'light' and 'dawn'."

"Interesting," he mused. "A thousand years ago the ancestors of the Rohirrim were caught up in the final wars of the North Kingdom. Your people might have branched off from them then. The Éothéod were a far-traveled people, though, so you could have split away at almost any time…"

Suddenly Denethor realized that we were both nattering on about linguistics. His face turned bright red and he angrily jumped to his feet. "No! You are distracting me! I shall not be befuddled by the snare of study! This is a time of war! Away with such things! I cast them from me with both hands!"

Even as I cringed away from him, I could understand how Denethor felt. I too often wanted nothing more than to return to my books and my papers and my comfy ivory tower—but life doesn't work that way. For a moment I almost felt sorry for the old guy, although I'm sure that he would never have felt sorry for me.

Pretending that nothing unusual had occurred, Lord Denethor sat back down and said with feigned calmness, "Princess Éowyn, I believe this concludes our meeting. Have you anything else to say to me?"

"I do not, Lord Denethor," Éowyn said with a little gasp.

Of course she didn't! Who would?

Lord Denethor put one thumb to his lip and seemed to ponder for a moment. "Minas Tirith is girding itself for war, so I fear that our hospitality is somewhat scant of late. However, I have already allotted living quarters to Gandalf and his halfling companion. Their rooms are not luxurious but I'm sure that with a bit of squeezing you can all make do."

"We came here to fight, not to loll in luxury," Éowyn said tightly.

"Yes, yes, of course you did. We will call it settled then." Denethor waved his hand in a casual gesture of dismissal. "You must excuse me—there are a number of important matters that I must attend to."

After his string of wild accusations, none of us wanted to hang around any longer than we had to. As Beregond led us out, I glanced back and saw that at least one of those 'important matters' was—his lunch! Denethor had moved over to a marble table that was spread with a lavish feast—plate after plate of rich foods and savories. His city might be girding for war, but its Steward wasn't stinting himself.

I hoped that those delicacies would choke him.


	13. Meeting the Relatives

**Usual disclaimers and thanks**: Nothing is mine, etc., etc.

Thanks to my betas, eekfrenzy and Rose—and thanks also to my reviewers.

Reviews are my only reward. I like them a lot.

Most original female characters in LOTR fanfic fall into one of two categories. The 'Mary Sue' tends to be powerful and beautiful and beloved by heroes and very, very arrogant. (Or at least oblivious to anyone else's point of view.) The second kind is usually soft, addicted to modern comforts and seemingly unable to survive in a medieval society without extensive help. This latter type is called 'realistic.'

I really don't want to believe that the girls of today are as incompetent as all that. Spoiled maybe. Creatures of habit and unaware of the outside world, the same as most people. Unused to hard physical work, yes. But in times of crisis, ordinary people have always risen to the occasion in every age. Why not today?

So I just redid my story summary. It now begins: "Can a girl-who-falls-into-Middle-earth be 'realistic' AND join in the fight against Sauron?" I hope that will catch the eye of the readers.

**Chapter 13 Meeting the Relatives**

As we Seven filed out into the corridor, Éowyn looked shaky, and the rest of us weren't much better off. Not one of us had been prepared for a confrontation like that. Lord Denethor seemed to be the academic type, but as I knew from experience, that didn't mean he was a nice guy. If he had made up his mind that King Théoden meant to overthrow him, he would have tossed us into a dungeon in a New York minute. The Riders of Rohan would have gotten a nasty surprise when they showed up, too.

Without warning, Beregond stopped dead about halfway down the corridor and we nearly ran up his heels. I was thinking, "What now?" and was about to panic when he turned to us with an anguished expression. "Gandalf's quarters are completely unsuitable for a Princess of Rohan. His rooms are tiny and there are only two beds."

So? I glanced over at Éowyn and saw that she was just as flabbergasted as I was.

"As I told your Steward, Beregond, we did not come here to loll in luxury," she said noncommittally.

Poor Elric, who didn't know Westron and hadn't understood one word in ten, burst out in Rohirric, "What is going ON?"

Bëor seemed as nonplussed as I was. He answered Elric in the same language, "The Gondorian soldier fears that the rooms we have been assigned will be too small and mean for us."

"Is that all?" Elric said scornfully. "It doesn't bother me a bit—I'll sleep in the stable as usual."

Bëor told the rest of us in Westron, "The boy and I will sleep with the horses. It will be simpler that way."

Haldred, who wasn't fluent in Westron either, said swiftly, "I will sleep in the stable too."

"I shall sit quietly and meditate. We Elves do not need as much sleep as you mortals do." This was Serindë, of course.

Merry chimed in, "Pippin and I can certainly share a bed in a pinch."

"So can Barbarella and I," Éowyn added.

Looking around at our little group, I commented deadpan, "Well, I guess that settles it. There's only one problem—where do we put Gandalf?"

After everything we'd been through, that was just too much for Éowyn! She clapped both hands over her mouth and did her best to stifle her giggles but we could still hear a "muh muh muh" through her fingers. Watching her set me off too—we clung to each other, whooping and gasping, as we tried desperately not to be overheard by an outraged Denethor.

Of course the men didn't understand our fit of stressed-out hilarity but they weren't about to criticize a princess. Standing around uncomfortably, they waited for us to calm down.

As soon Éowyn and I regained our composure, Beregond jumped in with his new, improved plan. "I know what we can do. I shall take you to the mansion of Lord Húrin as his guests."

Éowyn asked skeptically, "Will your Lord Húrin wish to countermand the Ruling Steward's orders merely to host a group of strangers?"

I'd been thinking the same thing. We were persona non grata as far as Lord Denethor was concerned. Why would anyone in Minas Tirith want to get involved? But Beregond had a mulish expression on that Prince Charming face of his. "Yes, I am sure that he will. I will take you to a place where you can wait until I can find Bergil to take you there."

We had to go back to Lord Húrin's mansion anyway to claim our gear and our horses, so Éowyn reluctantly agreed. Relieved, Beregond led us down a cross-corridor and unlocked the first door to the right, ushered us into the room, and departed.

Jury Assembly Room Number One turned out to be square, cold, and dark, although a stained-glass window let in a little sunlight and a single candle guttered on the marble table in the middle of the room. With a spurious air of nonchalance, our two warrior-guys positioned themselves on opposite sides of the door and rested their hands by their swords. It looked like I wasn't the only one who was getting twitchy.

Seeing the opportunity to sit, I headed over to a bench next to a big wall hanging. I've learned from experience that the area by the wall hangings is the warmest spot in the room. This particular wall hanging was more of a drape than a tapestry—a muddy orange brocade picked out with stylized silver leaves.

Éowyn sat down wearily at my side. "This is not what I expected to find in Minas Tirith."

"You're telling me!" I hoped that Beregond's kid would show up before Denethor started to wonder where we'd gotten to. I slouched back to relax and felt a draft coming from underneath the tapestry. Given the lack of air conditioning in Minas Tirith, that meant there was a hole in the wall. When I pushed aside the drape, I saw that a heavy wooden door had been left slightly ajar.

I silently pointed this out to Éowyn and we scooted closer to the hanging to investigate. Under the circumstances it was impossible not to eavesdrop. We didn't hear anything for a while, but just as we were about to give up, we heard voices in the next room.

The first voice had to be Lord Denethor's. "Those were defenses that your brother held intact. Osgiliath must be retaken!"

"My lord, Osgiliath is overrun," answered a resigned second voice. After a few seconds I recognized who it was—Prince Faramir, the auburn-haired young officer who'd been talking to Gandalf and Pippin.

I could hear the stiletto in Denethor's voice even through the wall hanging. "Is there a captain here who still has the courage to do his lord's will?"

Another long pause. "You wish that I had died and Boromir had lived."

"Boromir was loyal to me!"

There was a sound of rustling. Something that I couldn't quite make out was happening on the other side of the door. Then Prince Faramir said, "Since you are robbed of Boromir, I will do what I can. If I should return, think better of me, Father."

Father? Oh.

At that point Éowyn, who's a lot more dextrous than I am, quietly slid her fingers through the drapes and pulled the door shut. Denethor would not have been happy if he'd found out that we'd been listening in on his family quarrel.

I glanced down and noticed idly that my fingernails had made white marks in the heels of my hands. "Y'know, all at once I'm reminded of my father."

Éowyn was startled and curious all at once. "You have spoken often of your mother, but never of your father. Why is this so?"

"Because they split up when I was eight. 'Irreconcilable differences' is what my Mom called it." I shrugged wearily. "Dad moved halfway across the country, but he promised he'd write to me. For a while he did-but then the letters stopped. I figured that it had to be my fault, somehow."

"Oh, Barbarella, I am so, so sorry…"

"Don't be sorry—it was just a kid's stupid idea. My father wasn't blaming me. There was simply nothing else that he wanted to say." At any rate, that's what I'd finally decided after chewing it over about a zillion times. "It used to bother me, but I'm beginning to see the advantages of silence."

Raising my gouged palms up toward the ceiling, I said ironically, "Thanks, Daddy."

Éowyn grabbed one of my hands and held it tightly. After a few moments, she said in an amused voice, "So, 'the Rohirrim like their King well enough'?"

"Hey, would it be better if your people didn't like their King?" I laid my other hand onto hers. "Anyway, I think you know where my loyalty lies."

"Yes. I do."

All of the important stuff said, the two of us sat on the bench and waited for Bergil to show up. Over by the table Merry had found an apple somewhere and was sharing it with Elric. If a hungry hobbit was willing to give up his food we must have really have become a Fellowship.

While I waited, my mind kept going back to my conversation with Denethor. Some of the things that he'd said to me just didn't make sense. I tried to puzzle it all out but I'm afraid that I'm no Sherlock Holmes.

After awhile we heard a scratching noise at the corridor door. Ready for anything, our two stalwart doorwardens cracked open the door to see who it was. It was Beregond's son Bergil, all excited and proud about the task his father had given to him. He must have guessed that something was up but he was too young to understand the politics of the situation.

Bergil pushed out his thin chest self-importantly. "My father has ordered me to take you to the home of Lord Húrin and to tell no man what I am doing. I guess that means I should tell Gramma. She is Lord Húrin's housekeeper and she's in charge of everything."

"We place ourselves into your hands, Bergil Beregondson," Éowyn said to him solemnly. "What would you have us do?"

Well! Bergil just beamed when she said that. "Follow me!"

We sneaked out of the White Tower and past the Dead Tree, then retraced our steps back and forth down the multiple levels of the White City. It was early afternoon and by then there were a lot more pedestrians in the streets. Yes, the city had been attacked by hideous monsters sent by Sauron—but life goes on. People had shopping to do, errands to run, jobs to go to.

When we reached Lord Húrin's mansion, Bergil banged on the massive door with a curious brass doorknocker that was shaped like an eagle clutching a star. Elric and our two warriors headed off instantly to the stable, leaving the rest of us to fend for themselves.

After what seemed a long time, the door was opened by a stooped old fellow who was practically buried in a rusty black jacket that had been made for someone with much broader shoulders. Except for a few wisps of white hair he was completely bald, and his forehead and mouth were deeply carved with wrinkles.

Bergil bowed to him cheerfully. "Master Mornacollo, are you our new doorman?"

"All of our young men are guarding the Great Gate. I am trying to help out any way I can." The Oldest Inhabitant stared at us with watery grey eyes. "Bergil, who are these people? Surely the two ladies are not Gondorian—and from what place does this little man come from? And by the Nemmirath, is this not an Elf? I have not seen an Elf in Minas Tirith since I was younger than you are now."

"The tall lady is Princess Éowyn of Rohan," Bergil announced with relish. "My father said that I should bring the Princess here, and that Lord Húrin would host her and her company."

"Oh my stars and stones," Mornacollo stammered, "of course he will. But Lord Húrin will not come home until dusk, and I do not know what we should do with them until he does."

"Why don't we ask Gramma?" Bergil asked. His Gramma was beginning to sound like the Power Behind the Throne, which was fine by me. I was getting pretty sick of Lord This and Prince That.

"Well, yes, your grandmother will know what to do," Mornacollo answered in a tone of relief. He said to Princess Éowyn, "Come with me, please."

Having become accustomed to following total strangers, that's what we did. Mornacollo escorted us down a narrow hall into a small sitting room that was lit by a brass chandelier and furnished with overstuffed gold-upholstered chairs and octagonal lacquered tables. He waved in the direction of the chairs and said that we should sit down and he'd do what he could to make us comfortable.

His idea of 'making us comfortable" turned out to be serving us slices of dark citrony fruitcake and cups of sweet herbal tea—which really hit the spot, because by that time breakfast was a fond memory and Denethor hadn't offered us any lunch. Even Serindë nibbled a few bites of fruitcake.

We'd nearly finished seconds and were starting on thirds when Bergil's Gramma showed up. Hastily, Bergil put his fourth piece of fruitcake back onto the plate. His grandmother was old, definitely, but she was doing a lot better job of pushing off decrepitude than Mornacollo. Her back was ramrod straight and her hair pitch black—except for a pair of white wings curling from her brows.

"I am Narbeleth, Lord Húrin's housekeeper. The daughter of Théodwyn is most welcome here, Princess Éowyn. You must consider this house as your home while you are in Minas Tirith."

Éowyn inclined her head gracefully. "We are grateful for Lord Húrin's hospitality. Lord Denethor did not have time to find a place for us to stay."

"I am sure he did not! Lord Denethor cares little for anyone who is not Gondorian!" Narbeleth snorted. "How many people are in your party? I will prepare rooms for all of you myself."

"We are seven, but Haldred, Bëor, and Elric will not need rooms. They prefer to stay with our horses," Éowyn told her. "Barbarella is my counsellor and my friend, Merry is my esquire, and Serindë is an Elf from Lothorien who has come with us to Minas Tirith to fight against Sauron."

"I shall not require quarters either," Serindë said shortly. "I shall leave now and attend to a task in the stable." Without further comment, she stalked out of the room.

As the old housekeeper's brows rose in surprise, Éowyn asked quickly, "How is it that you know so much about my family, Narbeleth?"

"Do you not know, Princess Éowyn, that your mother was Lord Húrin's sister-daughter? When Thengel, your King's father, lived in Gondor, he took Lord Húrin's elder sister as his wife. In Lossarnach Lady Morwen was called Flower-in-the-Snow, for she was very beautiful."

"I was told that in Rohan she was called Steelsheen, for she was as brave as she was beautiful," Éowyn replied. "It is her armor that I wear now. But she died before I was born, so I know very little of her."

"There is a portrait here of Lady Morwen, and you have her eyes." Expanding on the subject, Narbeleth added, "The history of your family is the history of my family too. My husband Baranur was the son of Thengel's horsemaster. His father also married a woman of Lossarnach and he remained in Gondor when Thengel went back to be crowned in Rohan."

So that the reason for Captain Ascar's crack about Beregond's 'lineage!' His Rohirric blood would explain his blond hair, too.

Suddenly realizing that we were all dead on our feet, Narbeleth cut short the conversation. "But you must be exhausted. I will place you in the rooms of Lord Húrin's daughter and her son, the young heir. Like most of the household, they have been sent off to Lossarnach, where our Lord hopes they will be safer."

Narbeleth bustled the three of us up two steep flights of stairs and down a narrow corridor with a black-and-white parquet floor. About halfway down the hall, she threw open a door. "Here is your room, Master Merry. If you need anything, pull the cord next to the bed."

Peering through the doorway, Merry said with a faint sigh, "I am sure that it will do very well."

I saw in a second what the problem was. The room would be perfectly nice—if you were eight years old! A mural of dancing rabbits had been painted on the wall over a little bed nestled with a gaily-colored quilt. Next to the child's bed there was a schoolboy's desk covered with books, and a hobby-horse leaned against the desk. Well, this was wartime. Merry would have to man up and take what he'd been offered.

At the very end of the corridor, Lord Húrin's housekeeper proudly opened another door and showed us the sleeping chamber of the daughter of the house. Now that was a fancy bedroom! All of the furniture was white with gold-engraved curlicues and the canopy bed had a gold-brocaded bedspread. But what impressed me most—and what must have stunned Éowyn—was the big bay window. I hadn't seen that much glass in one place since I'd arrived in Middle-earth! The bay window was made of dozens of mullioned panes of glass and it filled nearly half a wall.

The bedchamber was pretty imposing, but I noticed—although I did not mention—that it was a bit smaller than Éowyn's room back in Meduseld. You have to expect that when you live downtown.

"I am sure that Lord Húrin's daughter Lindóriel would be glad for you to use her bedchamber," Narbeleth told Princess Éowyn. "But she is much shorter than you are, so you cannot wear her gowns. I will look for others that will fit so that you can have clean clothing tomorrow."

Narbeleth added as she turned to leave, "Lord Húrin will return a little after sundown. Dinner is served at first lamplight."

Once we were alone, Éowyn and I sank down on the soft goosefeather mattress of the canopy bed and shared a brief, near-hysterical giggle. What a day we'd had!

"Clean clothing," I mused. "I seem to remember the concept of clean clothing."

"Barbarella, what are we going to do about Lord Denethor?" Éowyn asked worriedly. "I would not want his suspicions to cause trouble for Lord Húrin."

I considered the situation for a while, and then shrugged. "I don't believe that his suspicions will bother us as much as you might think. If we can stay out of his sight for a day or two, it will all blow over."

"But what if it does not?" Éowyn insisted.

"Orcs, Princess Éowyn—remember orcs? Once Sauron's army attacks the city, Denethor won't have time for us anymore."

Of course Éowyn wanted to keep arguing, and of course the Ruling Steward's opinion was important—but it wasn't the most important issue just then. "Look, we need to be coherent when we meet Lord Húrin. What say we lie down and take a little powernap?"

Éowyn sighed, but she knew I was right. Lindóriel's canopy bed was far too small for both of us—about what you'd expect for a respectable widow living in her father's house—but I found a little trundle bed slid underneath it and there were extra bedclothes in the fancy curlique cabinet.

While I was making up the trundle bed Éowyn peered down at me and said, "Lord Denethor seemed to believe that you were a agent of Lord Elrond—is that not what Saruman thought, too?"

I tucked my blanket into hospital corners. "Uh huh."

"How could Denethor have heard of this? Who could have possibly told him?"

"Yeah, I've been wondering about that myself."


	14. Situation Normal—All Fouled Up

**Usual disclaimers and thanks**: Nothing is mine, etc., etc.

Thanks to my betas, eekfrenzy and Rose—and thanks also to my reviewers.

Reviews are my only reward. I like them a lot.

Just got back from a visit to Rose—my sister and beta!

One problem you get when you write LOTR fanfic with an OFC is that a lot of readers are hoping to read their favorite scenes all over again. But of course our heroes aren't likely to do or say the same things when a strange young woman is hanging around! So from time to time Barbarella, like Sam Gamgee, drops a couple of eaves and winds up hearing things unseen—like the conversation between Denethor and Faramir, which was ripped raw and bleeding from the movie.

S: Does Barbarella still miss her Mom? Yup, every day. As for Serinde, she's an OFC with her own agenda who doesn't care a lick about what the male heroes think of her. So she has the charm of novelty at least. (BTW, if you set up a profile I could send you a reply to your comments.)

**Chapter 14 Situation Normal—All Fouled Up**

It felt like no more than fifteen minutes had passed until Éowyn and I heard a sharp knock on the door, but the sky had turned purple through that mullioned window so I guess we'd napped awhile. Nobody was standing there when I opened the door, but we figured it had to be dinnertime. When we ran down the hall to roust Merry he was sitting at the heir's schooldesk reading one of the books. I was momentarily tempted to peek over his shoulder, but instead we all headed downstairs. The chamber at the end of the first-floor hall was lit by a mass of candles so we figured that was where we were supposed to go.

There, rows of scowling ancestor-pictures glaring down the walls of Lord Húrin's dining room instantly intimidated me. Plus, I took one look at the tabletop made of a single block of marble, the gold-embroidered tablecloth, the translucent porcelainware, the silver utensils, and the crystal goblet at each place setting, and I realized that I was seriously underdressed in my green linen gown.

After a moment of trepidation, Merry selected the chair that had the booster cushion and Éowyn and I sat down on either side of him. I checked out the utensils—a spoon and two knives. Nobody had invented forks in Gondor either.

After a few nervous moments Lord Húrin made his appearance, and what an appearance it was! Even without a crown, Lord Húrin seriously reminded me of King Arthur. His stern eyes and noble expression made him look like a King. He was wearing the kind of suede jerkin that the warriors of Rohan use under armor, so I guessed that he was still a soldier, even at his age. Although his hair and beard were still pepper-and-salt, he was probably a lot older than he appeared.

Lord Húrin's grey eyes bored right through us but his voice was warm as hot chocolate. "Welcome to my home, Princess Éowyn—although I would a thousand times rather have hosted you at any other time. These are terrible days in Minas Tirith."

Éowyn stood up as a sign of respect, so Merry and I did too. "I am honored to meet you, Lord Húrin. I have already spoken to Lord Denethor as the War Messenger of Théoden King. It was…a strange conversation."

Lord Húrin frowned. "Lord Denethor has been preoccupied with many things of late. What tidings did you bring to him?"

"That the Riders of Rohan will soon arrive to fulfill the Oath of Eorl."

Éowyn's words surprised Lord Húrin, but he recovered fast. "So, when can we expect their reinforcement?"

"I can only tell you what I told Lord Denethor," Éowyn said. "King Théoden's Riders will arrive in one or two days."

"Tomorrow or the day after," Lord Húrin said. "I am sure that did not satisfy Denethor. How many men does the King of Rohan bring?"

"The muster was not complete when we left. Between six and nine thousand Riders."

"And we can use every one." Lord Húrin frowned. "I am ashamed to ask this, but no more?"

"Many of our warriors died at the Battle of Helm's Deep." Seeing his questioning look, Éowyn elaborated, "An army of at least ten thousand orcs was sent against Rohan. We won, but at the cost of many men."

"Don't forget the Elves," I said helpfully. "Lady Galadriel sent a company of archers from Lothlórien to stand with us at Helm's Deep and the ones that survived are riding to Minas Tirith with the Rohirrim."

"So many orcs!" Lord Huron exclaimed. "Did the White Wizard Saruman do nothing to aid you?"

"It was Saruman who sent them!" Éowyn answered. "He betrayed us all to Sauron!"

"But he's dead now," Merry told him. "We all saw him die."

Seasoned warrior though he was, Lord Húrin's face still crumpled in shock. Apparently he hadn't gotten the memo. No big surprise that Gandalf hadn't wanted to spread the bad news about a fellow Wizard.

Lord Húrin recovered his composure fast, and said to Éowyn, "I thank you for these tidings, and we will speak of them soon. But first you must introduce me to your two companions. Who are they, and from where do they come?"

Éowyn quickly introduced us. "Barbarella is my counsellor and Merry is my esquire. He comes from a land called the Shire. The warriors in my party are with our horses in your stable."

Lord Húrin shot a curious look at Merry and me. He must have wondered why Princess Éowyn had brought such useless-looking sidekicks on a dangerous mission! "You and your companions shall not find our hospitality lacking. It is my belief that the Oath of Eorl binds Gondor as well as Rohan."

Upon the marble tabletop Lord Húrin set a black wooden box with the White Tree of Gondor stencilled on it. When he opened up the box, I saw a flash of silver inside. "As a member of the Steward's Council, I have the authority to offer you something that an ambassador of Rohan will find most useful."

Removing two heavy silver chains from the box, Lord Húrin put them in Éowyn's hands. Both dangled pendants about the diameter of teacup saucers. "These medallions of state are used to identify official ambassadors to Gondor. They allow free access throughout the circles of the city. Wear one yourself and give the other to the aide you trust the most."

"That would be Barbarella," Éowyn said instantly. She slipped one medallion over my head and put the other one on herself. It was a big honor, but boy, those pendants were heavy! They were made of silver and enamel, and they must have weighed one or two pounds, at least. Examining the one on Éowyn's neck, I saw that it was set with an elaborate onyx carving of the White City surrounded with heraldic images. Craftwork like this would be almost impossible to counterfeit.

"I thank you, Lord Húrin," Éowyn said. "Even in such terrible times I am glad to be here. Long have I heard tales of my grandmother, but I know nothing of her people. Will you not tell me about our family?"

"I will be pleased to," Húrin said with a smile. "But come, let us eat. Little food is left in the White City save siege fare, but whatever Narbeleth cooks is a feast. Will the rest of your party join us?"

Éowyn shook her head. "No, they prefer to stay with our horses. As you know, a Rider of Rohan cares first for his horse, always."

So there we all were, four people sitting down at a table set for twelve. Lord Húrin must have had a million questions, but he allowed us to eat before he started grilling us. For awhile we were sneaking looks at him for clues on the local table manners, but nothing that he did was particularly new. I was the only one besides him who knew what a fingerbowl was, though.

When Mornacollo wheeled in dinner on a little wooden cart, I was surprised to discover that practically everything that we were served was somewhat familiar. For example, the salad was mostly composed of sprouts. My Mom loves sprouts, so I've gotten used to them, but let's face it—alfalfa is for horses. The main entree was Swedish meatballs on couscous and there was a side of stewed prunes. As a matter of prudence, I was careful not to eat too many of those prunes.

Most of the dinner was taken up with family reminiscences, the "you look like your grandmother" sort of thing. Morwen had been the eldest child, the next eldest was a brother, Dagnir, who died fighting the pirates. That's how Húrin became the Lord. His daughter's husband had been killed fighting orcs, so his daughter Lindóriel's son would be Húrin's heir.

All of this was told matter-of-factly, with only a trace of old sorrow. I said to myself, "They've gone through a generation of trench warfare. Half of their men have been killed fighting a World War."

When Mornacollo brought in the cheese platter Lord Húrin finally got down to business."Tell me, Princess—why are you really here?"

Éowyn wasn't too surprised by this question. She answered in a steady voice, "As I told you, I have the right to speak for Théoden King and I informed the Ruling Steward what to expect from Rohan."

Lord Húrin harrumphed. "King Théoden would never risk his sister's daughter in a mad venture such as this one. If his son Théodred should fall in this battle, you and your brother Éomer would be his heirs."

"Prince Théodred is dead," Éowyn reluctantly admitted. "He was killed by orcs before the Battle of Helm's Deep."

"Then certainly your uncle cannot spare you! I know why you came to Minas Tirith—you came here to fight," Lord Húrin snapped. "Do not trouble to deny it. Your grandmother was my sister and I remember very well what she was like. But why did your King permit this folly?"

Éowyn had obfuscated about as far as she could stand. "I was told by a true dream that I must fight the enemy at Minas Tirith. Even King Théoden could not refuse this weird."

From Lord Húrin's disgusted expression it was clear that he was thinking, 'this is crazy talk.' I had to sympathize, especially since I knew that I hadn't had a 'true dream'—it was just Tolkien.

"Your weird is folly, Éowyn," he said harshly. "I have fought Sauron for more years than Théoden has lived. Listen to me! You are very young, and you think that a warrior's greatest virtue is valor. But I tell you that a warrior's greatest virtue is obedience. As Gondor stands alone against Sauron's hordes, we do not need heroes. We need more soldiers."

It was my turn to talk so Éowyn could get some breathing room. "Gondor is no longer alone, Lord Húrin. All of Middle-earth has risen to fight the Dark Enemy. The Free Peoples stand with you."

"That may even be true, but all of Middle-earth is not here now. Yes, yes, Mornacollo told me that an Elf came with Princess Éowyn's party. And of course, a halfling." Lord Húrin tapped impatiently on the table with his fingers in a way that reminded me of Denethor, then directed his gaze at Merry. "I know what your people are called, Master Merry, for Gandalf brought one of your countrymen with him. I do not wish to offend you, but I cannot believe that two halflings will count for much against the power of Mordor."

Crazy talk—and even Tolkien—can be a good thing sometimes. If you don't stand up for your own friends, what good are you? I rose to my feet and spoke as the seer that I wasn't, "That is easy enough for you to say now, Lord Húrin. But when this battle is over, then you will not."

I was no Galadriel and I had no special effects, but I think that I projected the Voice of Doom pretty well. Lord Húrin gave me a fishy look and said to Éowyn. "This lady is your counsellor, Princess?"

"Yes, Barbarella is my counsellor," Éowyn said proudly. "She is also a fine scholar and a friend."

Turning back to me, he said impatiently, "You may be a fine scholar, but in matters of war I have found that practical experience is much superior to theory. Did you get those words from a book?"

I gave him an ironic smile. "I can truthfully say that I never read the book."

Well, that was that for Éowyn's respite. Lord Húrin said to her in a stern, measured tone, "I am your mother's uncle and while you are in Minas Tirith I am responsible for your wellbeing. You must promise me that you will not try to leave the city and fight."

"I cannot do that," Éowyn said.

"Very well then, let me tell you what I can promise you." Although Lord Húrin's voice was soft, it felt as angry as a shout. "I am the Warden of the Keys of Minas Tirith. Tomorrow I shall tell my guards that you are not to be allowed through the Great Gate. I have granted you a diplomatic medallion and freedom within the city—but you shall not leave Minas Tirith until King Théoden arrives."

"But, Lord Húrin…"

"That is my final word!" he roared.

It had definitely turned into one of those family gatherings with landmines. As soon as she decently could, Princess Éowyn made her excuses and we all trooped back upstairs. Éowyn spent some time pacing up and down the hall and staring at family portraits, and I think that Merry may have finished his book. And as for me? I sacked out.

I haven't been making a big deal about it, but I can assure you that I hadn't magically become accustomed to riding all day and sleeping on the hard ground at night. No, sirree! But my boss is a Warrior Princess, so I kept my big mouth shut about my aches and pains.


	15. Somebody Else's Story

**Usual disclaimers and thanks**: Nothing is mine, etc., etc.

Thanks to my betas, eekfrenzy and Rose—and thanks also to my reviewers.

Reviews are my only reward. I like them a lot.

For those of you who've been waiting for it—this chapter spotlights Merry! I've asked myself whether I've been cheating Merry out of his fair share of dialogue, but I'm inclined to believe that he's just too smart a hobbit to unnecessarily attract the attention of Big Folk that he doesn't know very well.

**Chapter 15 Somebody Else's Story**

The next morning I was woken by sunlight slanting onto my face through the bay window. I looked up from my trundle bed and realized that the big canopy bed was empty. Éowyn, always the early riser, must have stepped right over me and gone out.

Throwing off my covers, I hastily sponged off from the bedside basin. There was a long black dress hanging by the door that had 'henchwoman' written all over it. As I pulled it on I was agreeably surprised to notice that it was about the right size and fit pretty well. Narbeleth had come through for me, too.

I'd just started to comb out my hair when there was a knock at the door.

"Éowyn?" I called out.

"No, it's me, Merry."

Giving my hair a lick and a promise, I pulled my 'diplomatic medallion' over my head, and hurried out to meet him. What? You think that a gentlehobbit like Merry Brandybuck would waltz into the bedchamber of two young women just because he'd been sleeping next to us on the trail?

That morning Merry was wearing civvies instead of his Rohirric armor—his other pair of pants, somebody else's ruffled white shirt, and an elven cloak that looked like the one that Serindë had given to me.

"Princess Éowyn has already gone out," he told me. "I need a favor. Will you walk with me to Lampwright's Street? Mornacollo says that it is not far from here."

"To Lampwright's Street? Why?"

"Mornacollo told me that there is a Guesthouse still open there, so I hope that is where Gandalf and Pippin have been lodged."

"Of course I'll go with you, Merry. You must be dying to see Pippin again, and it's a bad idea to run around alone in a city you're not familiar with. I sure hope that Éowyn took Haldred or Bëor with her."

"Can we go right now?" Merry asked anxiously. "If we wait for breakfast it will take too long."

Hobbits are supposed to be big fans of multiple meals, but you'd never know it from Merry. In the course of his adventures he'd turned into a seasoned campaigner. I realized just how seasoned he was after we waved goodbye to Mornacollo and Merry emptied his pockets to reveal a treasure trove of fruitcake and cheese that he must have gleaned the previous night.

"You're quite a forager, aren't you, Merry?" I commented.

"If I wasn't, I'd starve."

When we walked out into the city I realized that it wasn't all that late. Not much later than nine o'clock, practically the pearly part of the day.

Merry did all of the navigating—the only places I knew were the ones that I'd already seen, and of course there were no street signs. It looked like we were entering a manufacturing zone—I could smell pitch, ammonia, sometimes even blood. Somewhat paranoid due to my earlier experiences, I checked out that last odor, but it was only a tannery, not Sweeney Todd's barbershop. Pinching my nose shut, I paused for a few moments to watch a trio of wizened old men hanging up and scraping cowhides.

There were plenty of refugees in this part of town, too—weary men and women hunkered down on the curbs or dozing in temporary lean-tos made of carpets. Once a tiny brownskinned child darted up to investigate us and Merry offered her a chunk of fruitcake. She snatched it and gobbled it down in a heartbeat.

Workmen all around us were staring at Merry's hairy feet and my red hair, but I gazed past them and pretended I didn't notice, the way you always do in a big city.

"I think Lampwright's Street is at the next crossroad," Merry said. It turned out to be more like an alley, but I saw shops there, and a few of them even looked open. One of them sold leather goods, and I could sure have used a new pair of shoes—but how could I pay for them? I'd gotten so used to Rohan's essentially moneyless society that it was a shock to find myself in an actual city and realize that I was stony broke.

Then, from somewhere down the street, I smelled an odor that was far more entrancing than tanner's reek. It was coffee! Oh bean, beautiful bean, so full of caffeine, that I had missed so very, very much! I said breathlessly to Merry, "C'mon!" and picked up the pace.

The shop that was the source of the odor was halfway down Lampwright's Street, and its windowshutters had been thrown wide open to indicate that it was open for business. Someone had set a vase of dried flowers onto the metal café table next to the entrance, too.

When I stepped through the doorway of the Old Brassworks—that was the name stenciled on the Aladdin's Lamp sign over the door—I found myself in a dark, dusty little building jammed full of shelves, tables, and carts that were piled high with jewelboxes and water jugs, plates and mugs, candlestick holders and cookie cutters, lamps, locks, and windchimes—all made of brass.

For a second it took me back to Hershey, Pennsylvania. In spite of the different technology, this "All Things Brassish" store reminded me of my Mom's giftshop. Except that in Middle-earth these things weren't just knickknacks or souvenirs or toys filled with milk chocolate. In Minas Tirith they were part of people's everyday lives.

There was one wooden counter on the right side of the shop that wasn't full of brasswork. Instead it was crammed with glass bottles and jars filled with pods, powders, and dried leaves. I also saw strings of herbs, some of them quite exotic-looking, and a little samovar sat on the counter where you'd expect to see a cash register. Could this be where the coffee was brewing?

The only other person in the shop was an elderly black man. He was tinkering with the samovar, but looked up to peer at what may have been his first customers of the day. "May I help you?"

"Yes, yes, I really think you can," I said eagerly, "That beverage that you're brewing—what is it? It smells like a drink we call 'coffee' back home."

The old man's stern features and long dark robes made him look a little like Mace Windu with hair. "My father's people call it 'kahve', which sounds much the same."

A pleading whine came into my voice. "Is there any chance you could spare me one cup of your kahve?"

The shopkeeper blinked. "You must understand, my dear—it does not taste the way that it smells."

"I know that it's bitter. Bitter is good. Please."

"I suppose I can give you a cup of kahve. There is no sense in wasting the rest of the pot."

As he puttered around with the samovar, I blurted out hopefully, "If it's not too much to ask, could you put some honey into it? That's the way I drink coffee back home."

"I have no honey, but I can spare a bit of crystallized cane syrup. This shop normally sells only brass, but I have brought in my own small stock of herbs and spices."

That sounded good. It sounded very good, in fact. Feeling a sense of guilt about delaying Merry, who was probably desperate to connect with his cousin Pippin, I said, "I'm sorry, Merry. Can you wait for me just a few moments?"

"That's all right. I'd like to look at the things that are for sale here." While I was waiting for my coffee, Merry wandered down one aisle, occasionally picking up and examining various objects made of brass.

Finally the old shopkeeper poured out some 'kahve' into a little brass cup with no handles and gave it to me—a little dubiously—to taste. The beverage was about what I'd expected—a kind of Turkish coffee, extremely strong and with plenty of grounds in the bottom of the cup. It was very bitter, but it had been sweetened by 'crystallized cane syrup'—what we'd call in America 'raw sugar'.

In short, a cup of pure Heaven!

Glancing up after the first careful sip, I noticed that the shopkeeper was pouring himself another brass cupful. He met my eyes and said, "To be done right, drinking kahve ought to be a social experience."

We wound up sitting at the little café table outside the door. I figured that he intended to grill me, but what the heck—he'd given me coffee! Anyway, I'd been interrogated by guys a lot scarier than a shopkeeper.

"My name is Barbarella," I volunteered brightly. "In case you're wondering, I came here yesterday with the delegation of Princess Éowyn of Rohan."

"My name is Zubair." My 'questioner' blew solemnly on his beverage. "In case you are wondering, my parents were spice traders from Near Harad, a land south of the Mountains of Shadow. I may not look it, but I was born here and I grew up in Harlond, the docktown below us. Because of the recent attacks, people like me have had to flee from Harlond to whatever refuge they could find on the streets of Minas Tirith."

How many attacks had there had been? Enough to disrupt the spring planting, anyway. "That's what happened in Rohan when the orcs attacked us—we fled to the fortress of Helm's Deep. King Théoden says that homes can be rebuilt and crops can be replaced, so long as the people are kept safe."

"Yes, that is what the nobles of the White City say," Zubair snorted. "But their houses are protected behind walls of stone, while the people of Harlond are left with only the goods that they could carry. I would be wandering the streets today if a friend who took his family south to Pelargir had not asked me to mind his shop."

"I know what you mean," I said uncomfortably. And I did—especially after our run-in with their Ruling Steward. "But the people aren't like that in Rohan. Even the royal family doesn't pile up treasure and personal possessions."

"Are you not of Rohan yourself?" Zubair asked.

"No, I am a…a castaway. An immigrant like you. When I showed up in Rohan, Princess Éowyn befriended me and I am honored to serve her."

"So much depends on the friends one chooses," Zubair said cynically. "Why did your Princess come here to Minas Tirith?"

"Truthfully?" I was sick of mealymouthing, and Zubair wasn't likely to chat with Lord Denethor any time soon. "We came here to fight. The next battle will be the big one. If we don't win here, none of the Free Peoples of Middle-earth will survive."

"Is that what they think in Rohan?"

"You can bet your life on it. We did."

I was reminded that I had no more time for coffee when Merry staggered out of the shop lugging an ugly blue-green lump the size and shape of a half gallon of milk.

"Shopkeeper," Merry said in a determined voice, "I want to buy this lamp."

As Zubair evaluated my companion and his prospective purchase, I was examining the object that he wanted to buy. It was a lamp, all right. Its metal framework was as corroded as a long-dead flashlight battery and most of its glass panes were cracked or missing, but it had definitely started out as a brass lamp.

Zubair went into a bargaining mode reminiscent of a Middle-Eastern rug merchant. "I am not sure that I can sell you this, young master. It was made long ago and it is an heirloom of the owner's house."

But Merry didn't want to play. He slapped a big buckle onto the café table and said, "I'll offer you gold."

That buckle looked familiar, although for the life of me I couldn't remember where I'd seen it before.

Zubair sighed. "Are you another member of the company that came here to fight orcs?"

Merry raised his chin. "Yes, I am. I'm not as good a warrior as a man of Gondor, but I'm getting better."

Hefting the golden buckle in his hand, Zubair nodded. "I cannot refuse a foreigner who has come to risk his life for my city. I will find a way to explain this to Calmacil—if I ever see him again."

While Zubair was wrapping Merry's purchase in a length of unbleached muslin, I gulped down the dregs of my coffee. We had to leave quickly and find Pippin.

The Old Guesthouse was at the end of Lampwright's Street, almost carved into the great stone Wall that guarded Minas Tirith. As we got closer I noticed quite a bit of greenery in pots. The evergreen topiaries by the doors probably indicated some Gondorian's horticultural bent; the rest probably indicated that they liked to eat. Hanging baskets with strawberries, grapevines twining up ornamental stone arches, balconies crammed with pots of fruit trees, even beanpoles. As Lord Húrin had said, these were siege conditions.

"That old thing must be worth a lot to you if you put down gold for it," I said to Merry as we walked along.

"You don't see a flash-lamp every day!" Merry clicked a button on his verdigris-covered purchase and showed me how it sparked. "Aragorn has a little one that he uses to light his pipe, but this is the only other flash-lamp that I've ever seen."

He'd sure paid a lot for what amounted to a BIC lighter. A green flash-lamp! I looked at it again and smiled. "It's not a Flash-Lamp, it's a Green Lantern! It would be worth all the gold that you've paid for it if it worked like one."

"What do you mean?" Merry asked indignantly. "I just showed you that it works!"

I was getting silly. "Never mind. I was thinking about somebody else's story."

When we reached the Old Guesthouse, it wasn't particularly welcoming. Like many other buildings in Minas Tirith, it was a big slab of multi-storied stone, and the windows facing the street were shuttered. That huge front door could have been made for a fortress. It was dark oak, massive…and closed.

We were standing on the steps leading to the entranceway and staring up at the second-floor balconies when a little old lady hobbled up to us clutching a broom. From the wrinkles on her face I assumed that she was about eighty, of sturdy peasant stock.

"Does the Wizard Gandalf have a room here?" Merry asked her hopefully.

The old woman peered at us myopically. "I do not believe so. You could go inside and ask Alda if you want to."

I tugged hard at the heavy oak door and it finally opened. "Why don't we, Merry? Seeing that we've come so far already."

We found ourselves in a large room with a high-arched stone ceiling and rows of plank tables. Nobody else was around except for a couple of busboys who were clearing plates and mugs from the tables. Merry walked over to the counter on the opposite side of the room. "Hello? Alda? Is anybody there?"

After a few moments, a grey-haired woman pushed through the beadstrings that hung in the doorway on the opposite side of the counter. She wore the funereal black dress and headscarf that seemed to be standard issue in Minas Tirith, but her bright blue eyes and pink cheeks made her seem more vivacious than most. She stared down at Merry, whose nose barely reached the top of the counter, and said, "I am Alda. You are small, little man, but you are not a boy."

"No, I'm not a boy. Thanks for noticing," Merry said with an air of relief.

"You should not thank me. Since you are not a boy, I cannot give you a room. The Steward has ordered that during the time of evacuation, only the young sons of soldiers may stay here."

Merry's face fell. "Then Gandalf isn't here?"

"Gandalf the Wizard? I heard that he rode into Minas Tirith a few days ago, but no, he is not here. Perhaps he resides in one of the state apartments on the seventh level."

What a disappointment! I quietly asked Merry, "Do you want to go up there and look?"

He shook his head sadly. "It is too far away and it would take too long. If only Minas Tirith had a Quick-Post service like we have in the Shire!"

Poor Merry—in this savage land he couldn't even mail a postcard! Well, there was at least one thing in the Guesthouse that might be worthwhile—a platter of flatbread on the counter. It must have been part of the breakfast that Alda served the boys.

"Look, we don't need a room," I said to her. "But could you at least give us some breakfast?"

"All that I have left is bread and beer," she said dubiously.

"We'll take it!" Merry and I answered in unison.

We ferried the platter over to a table near one of the shuttered front windows and Alda brought us two mugs of beer. Now I'm no fan of beer for breakfast, but it's got calories, and I've learned in Middle-earth that calories can be good things. You need to burn calories to keep yourself going. While Merry divvied up the flatbread, I tried to pry open the windowshutters, but they were locked tight.

Merry ate a few pieces of bread, then set his purchase on the table and started to buff it with the muslin wrapping. Seeing it up close, I was even more convinced that Zubair had been fibbing when he called it an heirloom.

After awhile Merry gave up on rubbing off patches of verdigris and stared somberly at the lamp. He heaved a big sigh and said to me, seemingly apropos of nothing, "I can't do this, Barbarella."

"Can't do what?" I asked uneasily.

"How can I be Princess Éowyn's esquire and help her defeat the Witch-King? I'm just a little hobbit—somebody like me can't fight a Nazgûl!"

What could I say to him? I'd felt like that myself more often than not.

Almost inaudibly, Merry told me, "Pippin and I…we weren't really supposed to be a part of this Quest at all. I don't think anybody in Rivendell wanted us to be part of the Fellowship, but we insisted, and we were Frodo's friends, so they let us come along. Pippin was right—what do hobbits know about the great wars of the Big Folk? Prince Boromir was a real warrior, but he died trying to save Pippin and me."

"It's okay to be afraid, Merry," I said cautiously. "Even the toughest warriors feel fear."

"I'm not afraid for myself. I'm afraid that I'll be a hindrance, of no use at all."

I could understand how he felt. If he didn't get encouragement right then, he might go into a funk. I had to reassure him somehow, and when it comes to the crunch, you use any tool that you have at hand. In this case, it was a comic book.

"Back at home, Merry, I once read a story about a band of elite Rangers called the Green Lantern Corps. A Wizard Council selected them from every kind of person there is—tall and short, male and female, human-shape and beast-form—and gave them lanterns of magical power, so that they could fight without fear to protect the innocent, obedient to the Green Lantern's Oath."

Cocking his head, Merry asked with a certain amount of interest, "And was this a true story?"

"I never thought it was," I said frankly. "But after the things that I've seen here, I don't know what to believe. What I do believe—what I truly believe—is that it's willpower that counts the most. If I really thought that only warriors could be useful in this war, I wouldn't have come to Minas Tirith."

Merry thought for a moment about what I'd said. "What is the oath?"

It's the oath that he asked about, not the magic. That tells you something about Merry.

So I recited the Green Lantern's Oath. Don't laugh—you know it too:

_In brightest day, in blackest night,  
No evil shall escape my sight.  
Let those who worship evil's might,  
Beware my power—Green Lantern's Light._

"I suppose the lantern that I've got will have to do," Merry sighed. "Let's go back and find Princess Éowyn. We've got a Ringwraith to fight."


	16. Seven Against Mordor

**Usual disclaimers and thanks**: Nothing is mine, etc., etc.

Thanks to my betas, eekfrenzy and Rose—and thanks also to my reviewers.

Reviews are my only reward. I like them a lot.

So at least Barbarella found coffee. Imagine if everything that you liked to eat or drink or watch on TV was suddenly unavailable. All the magic of Middle-earth wouldn't make up for that! And then there's the fact that she's in the midst of a war…

**Chapter 16 Seven Against Mordor**

It was quicker to return from Lampwright's Street than it had been to go there, partly because Merry and I knew the way, and partly because the streets were even emptier. More of the storefronts were closed—in mid-day!—and everyone was huddling inside their doors. I didn't see any housewives hanging their laundry, or old men sitting on stoops, or kids chasing each other in a pointless kid's game.

That was a really bad sign in a war-zone, so we hugged the wall all the way back to Lord Húrin's townhouse. Mornacollo doddered out to greet us when Merry and I knocked on the door. No, he had no idea where Princess Éowyn might be. She had left the house at dawn with the two men of her party and had not come back.

We swung by the stable in the hope that Elric might know something and saw that Elric had fed and watered all of the horses and was raking piles of fresh straw into the stalls. I couldn't see anything different from the Rohirric technique of spreading straw but I'm sure that Elric could have told me all about it.

Elric didn't know where Éowyn had gone, but he'd understood at least part of a conversation that he'd overheard: "farewell…Rangers…Great Gate." That sounded promising. Since bidding farewell to the warriors is a custom in Rohan too, I figured that Éowyn might have gone there. I hauled Elric away from his straw and the three of us went off to find Éowyn.

The Gate courtyard was pretty crowded, so I wasn't able to see whether Éowyn was there. The people who were milling around there were starting to give me the creeps. It wasn't the dead-black clothing—that's the style in Minas Tirith. It's because their long faces and downcast eyes made them look like they were going to a funeral instead of a farewell party. What a cheerful sight for the warriors as they departed!

As I looked around for Éowyn's blonde hair, the crowd parted and close to a hundred horsemen rode toward the Great Gate. They were wearing heavier armor than the Riders of Rohan do—metal breastplates, helmets, and greaves that had all seen too much use to shine in the afternoon sun. Prince Faramir rode at the head of the column. Later I found out that he's a decade older than me, but boy, did he look young that day to be a commander of troops!

When Faramir's men rode by, a woman with a purple scarf over her hair reached up to give a white flower to one of the older warriors, and other women with tears in their eyes threw flowers under the horses' hooves. This was really creeping me out—it reminded me of Prince Théodred's funeral.

Thankfully, I soon spotted Princess Éowyn. She and Haldred were watching the procession from a little stone alcove further up the street. I yelled 'halloo!' and Merry, Elric, and I picked our way through the solemn crowd.

When I got there, I saw that overnight, somebody had buffed up Éowyn's leather armor until it shone and that her mail-tunic was miraculously clean and unstained. The White Tree of Gondor was barely visible through the white-and-gold silk scarf she'd looped from her neck to her waist.

Éowyn was looking good, but her eyes were as grim as everyone else's.

"What's going on, Éowyn?" I blurted out. "Everybody looks like death warmed over."

"Prince Faramir's company of Rangers is riding out to attack the orcs that have overrun the city of Osgiliath. The odds… are not favorable," she said carefully.

"But at least their horses are fresh," Haldred pointed out. "A Gate captain told me they have a chance if the orcs have not brought up their archer units."

Princess Éowyn gave him a swift, quelling glance and I was reminded by Haldred's sudden gulp that Éowyn was a member of the ruling family that held the power of life and death over him.

"I have no desire to tarry and watch another's battle when I have one to fight myself," she said. "Haldred, summon Serindë and Bëor. I need to speak to you all."

Haldred shoved through the crowd of Gondorian soldiers and ascended the stone staircase that ran up the outer wall. If Serindë and Bëor had managed to bull their way up top, they'd be able to tell us what they'd seen outside when they came down. I told Elric the basics of what was going on while we waited in the alcove. We'd all been speaking in Westron, and he'd understood maybe a third of what we'd said.

There was a grapevine climbing up the arch of the alcove and shading us with its green leaves. Would the city survive long enough for it to bear grapes?

Haldred must have hustled, because he came back with Bëor and Serindë in record time. Serindë's face was as impassive as usual and Bëor gave us the old Vulcan eyebrow-raise. For Haldred it was business as usual.

Rohan's royalty puts on a 'game face' when they're about to go to war, and I could see that kind but utterly stern expression on Éowyn's face. "Comrades, we have ridden here to fight in a time of terrible War. But our number is small, and it is not my will to deliver my company into the hands of Lord Denethor. Give me your best thoughts—what deeds of worth can we few accomplish in the battle that is to come?"

Wow—I hadn't expected a brainstorming session!

Serindë spoke first, as I might have expected. "We are few, but so also are the Nazgûl. Any archer whose heart is fearless and whose aim is true can shoot the flying mount of a Nazgûl right out of the air. In this way I slew one of the taerodrakes that attacked us on the Pelennor Fields. If I can do this again, the Nazgûl on top of the foul creature will have to walk to the walls of Minas Tirith."

Now there was an appealing image—nine wraiths in black robes thumbing a ride to the Great Gate. I could tell by the sparkle in Bëor's eyes that he relished the idea too. He said to Serindë, "I am accounted a good archer among my own people, and I shall attempt to equal your great deed. But tell me, since you have already done this thing—how can I kill one of the fell beasts?"

She replied flatly, "The best way is to shoot out its eyes, one after another."

Bëor pursed his lips and looked thoughtful. That kind of perfect shooting was something that a mortal archer could maybe—maybe—accomplish once on a very good day. But he'd do his best, anyway.

Haldred said in his turn, "I am no master bowman, but I fought to hold the Great Gate of the Hornburg against the orcs. I can do the same thing here, and perhaps it will encourage the men of Gondor when I tell them that at Helm's Deep we won the battle."

While Haldred was speaking, Bëor whispered in Elric's ear—no doubt to tell him what his Princess had asked. Elric said stoutly in Rohirric, "Bergil can take me to this city's Hall of Healing. I will carry the wounded to safety as I did at Helm's Deep."

"That was bravely spoken—as I would expect from a son of Rohan," Éowyn answered in the same language.

Merry sighed. "My place is with you, Princess Éowyn, for I am your esquire."

As I was wondering, 'and where does that leave me?' Éowyn told me, "Barbarella, you are my counsellor. I want you to stay with me and give me advice until the battle starts."

So that's what we were supposed to do. It didn't sound like much—but there were only seven of us!

Éowyn gave us the 'stern' expression once again. "If all of you do as you have said, we shall surely gain great renown."

Haldred had been given his marching orders and seemed more or less content, but Bëor is the kind of guy who needs answers. He said awkwardly, "Before we leave for our separate tasks I must ask you, Princess—why did you really come to Minas Tirith? We are your comrades, and we should know the truth. King Théoden did not appoint you as his War Messenger."

Éowyn didn't want to answer that one. She stared at him for long moments, but he didn't lower his eyes. Finally she gave up and told him, "I came to Minas Tirith to slay the Witch-King of Angmar. It is my weird."

Choosing his words carefully, Bëor said, "You are a brave shieldmaiden, but many men have attempted to kill the Witch-King and all have died in the attempt. I know that the people of Eorl believe that a weird cannot be gainsaid, but how did you come to believe that this dire fate must be yours?"

Princess Éowyn retorted angrily, "Many men have tried to kill the Witch-King, but is there not an elven prophecy that no man shall slay him? Then I have a chance, for I am no man."

"I have been told of this prophecy, and the Elf who made it is very wise. But do you not know that the Nazgûl are terrible? What good will it do for your people if their Princess perishes here?"

Éowyn made the 'what's done is done' chopping motion that King Théoden uses to indicate that a topic is closed. "Do you not know, Ranger, that the Free Peoples will perish if we do not defeat Sauron's armies? At any cost, Sauron's most terrible general must be destroyed. Besides, the Witch-King knows of this prophecy as surely as you do. If that dwimmerlaik can feel fear at all, perhaps he will fear one who could fulfill it."

There was nothing more that Bëor could say. I'm sure he wasn't convinced, but he'd realized that he was talking to a brick wall and he couldn't hogtie a princess. Without further comment, Bëor and Haldred left on their self-appointed rounds and Elric scooted after them.

All around us the townspeople were sifting away from the courtyard. Faramir's Rangers had ridden out of sight and the civilians had their own work to do. Once the two warriors had gone, Éowyn confessed to the three of us who were left, "I do not know whether I have chosen aright, but I could not hand my men over to the command of Lord Denethor. He is too careless of his troops. Prince Faramir's Rangers are riding to their deaths."

'Careless' wasn't the half of it. While I was standing in the grape arbor, I'd suddenly come up with an answer to the question that had puzzled me earlier. It was like the times at college when I'd get up from the computer, wander away from my desk, and have the solution to the problem I'd been hammering on for hours just pop into my head.

"Ummmm… I'm afraid the situation is more complicated than that," I said to Éowyn. "Remember how we were wondering where Denethor heard about Saruman's accusation that I was Lord Elrond's lackey?"

"Yes, I remember." Éowyn looked at me oddly. "Is that really important right now?"

"Yeah, I'm afraid that it is." What I was going to say about Lord Denethor would probably be considered high treason in Gondor, but I always hated the pulp mystery heroines who refuse to cough up the vital clue until after the first three murders.

Before I spoke, I looked around to make sure that nobody was paying attention to the foreigners under the grape arbor. "Consider the possibilities logically. A wise man once said, 'When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains—however improbable—must be the truth'. We know that nobody but Gandalf could have ridden here on horseback before we did—and he didn't tell tales to Denethor, that's for sure! You cannot sail a ship from Rohan to Minas Tirith, and I can't imagine that a little bird told him."

"So what is your conclusion?" Serindë asked with a look of mild interest. For a change, our Elf lady actually wanted to know what a mortal was thinking. Maybe she had a taste for puzzles. "You have considered every possibility and are left with nothing."

I knew what I knew—but could I convince anybody else? "The only possibility left is that Denethor found out about Saruman's accusation by looking through a palantír."

Merry's face went white. "But…but when Pippin gazed into Saruman's palantír, Sauron nearly destroyed his mind!"

I nodded in agreement. "Yeah, and the experience didn't do Saruman much good either. You see our problem."

Éowyn fell silent, possibly remembering how King Théoden's mind had been clouded too—and how it had almost destroyed Rohan. "Can this war be won if the Ruling Steward's mind has been swayed by Sauron?"

Scared nearly out of our wits, the four of us traded nervous glances.

Serindë was the first to snap out of it. "You need not fear that Lord Denethor will cause us to lose this war, for it shall be neither won nor lost in Gondor, but in the heart of Mordor itself. Yet I think that anything we do to defend this city of men will be well done."

Éowyn nodded somberly. "Do you really think that I can slay the Witch-King, Serindë? You have fought the Shadow before and you know its minions better than any of us."

Amazingly, Serindë actually placed her hand on Éowyn's shoulder to reassure her. "Yes, Princess, it is possible—although it is no sure thing. If I did not believe this, I would not have put a blade of Gondolin into your hands, I would not have ridden here at your side, and I would not have spent all last night cleaning your armor so that you could make a brave show today. But to strike a blow against Sauron I would do anything. You have chosen your battle well, for the Witch-King is Sauron's greatest general and he cannot be replaced."

It did help to be reminded that we couldn't win the war in Minas Tirith. For better or for worse, that was up to Frodo Baggins. Even so, it was terrifying to know that it was the eve of battle and we were on our own.

"Somehow we'll figure out what to do, Princess," Merry said stoutly.

"I know we will, Merry. You have faced Ringwraiths before and you have not quailed. Truly, I would have no other esquire than you." Éowyn smiled down fondly at her hobbit esquire. "But now while there is still time we should refresh ourselves and prepare for what is to come."


	17. Fight of the Few

**Usual disclaimers and thanks**: Nothing is mine, etc., etc.

Thanks to my betas, eekfrenzy and Rose—and thanks also to my reviewers.

Reviews are my only reward. I like them a lot.

_TLTLI:_ Yeah, the trip to Gondor did have a lot of 'go here, do that' but Barb was stuck riding in a group of seven and was mostly thinking 'ow ow ow.' Although Tolkien and Jackson skimmed over this trip it would be cheating in mine, since I'm going for the 'you are here' thing. She's in Minas Tirith now, though, which gives her a little elbow room.

_cjsl8ne:_ In Tolkien's original books, Denethor definitely had a palantir and actually died clutching it to his chest.

_LadyDoroAnne_: And here I was, hoping for a review, and I got my wish too!

**Chapter 17 Fight of the Few**

Lord Húrin's kitchen was pretty much shut down—because of the siege conditions, no doubt. Éowyn had to play the 'princess card' to get any grub out of Beregond's formidable mother. Eventually Narbeleth sat down the four of us in a little nook lit only by afternoon sunbeams slanting through a skylight and grudgingly served us a ploughman's lunch—more flatbread, some hard cheese, and a bowl of black olives. I had to coax Éowyn and Merry to try the olives, but Serindë seemed familiar enough with them.

After that we went back to the courtyard. One of the courtyard staircases leads up to a watchtower next to the Great Gate, and Princess Éowyn wanted to go up and watch. There was no way you could have kept her off the Great Wall of Minith Tirith when a battle was coming soon. Éowyn needed to see what was going on outside.

The soldiers of Gondor were so awestruck when they saw a legendary Elf of Lothlórien marching up the stairs in glittering scalemail that they never got around to stopping the rest of us. To reach the top of the Wall, we had to climb forty feet of narrow stairs with no guard rail. Cringing against the stone wall, I stared in wonder at the towering spires, majestic marble domes, and immense ancient buildings of the White City. Before I was halfway to the top of that gigantic rock-ribbed Wall, I was positive that whatever Elder Race had built this city—Dúnedain, Atlanteans, Elohim, whatever—they must have constructed the Hornburg too. Only in Minas Tirith they hadn't been kidding around.

Éowyn wasn't puffing and panting as much as I was, but she was even more stunned by the view. I can't imagine what Merry was thinking. For a moment I actually told myself, "There's no way that the forces of Mordor can take down a fortress as strong and massive as this one!"

Then I remembered the Twin Towers.

When we stepped out onto the square battlement that surrounds the South Gate Watchtower, Serindë unslung her bow and took up a position by the east parapet. A dozen Gondorian soldiers in platemail were already there—and so was one scruffy Ranger in leather. It was Bëor, of course.

I strolled over and smiled cheerily at our Dúnedain guide. "Hi, Bëor. What's been happening?"

"So far we do not know," he said. "Prince Faramir's Rangers passed the Rammas Echor hours ago, and we have seen nothing since."

"So what is this Rammas Echor, anyway?" Because of my magical 'Universal Translator' power, I knew instantly that 'Rammas Echor' meant 'great-wall circle' in Elvish, but what did that signify?

"It is the wall that was built to encircle and protect the Pelennor Fields," Bëor said pedantically. "Look north and you will see the place where we passed through the wall when we came here."

I leaned out through a zigzag crenellation in the wall and squinted at a nondescript line of low stones. Yeah, I vaguely remembered that wall. It had just slipped my mind when the pterodactyls attacked us.

The Pelennor Fields were below us. I'd been right—the pastures had been neglected and the croplands left unplanted. All that spring there had been no time for anything but War.

"Where's Harlond?" This was probably my last chance to see Zubair's hometown while it was still standing. The big shiprock that sliced Minas Tirith in half blocked the view to the west, but in every other direction you could see for miles.

"The docktown of Minas Tirith lies along the Anduin River to the south. Most of its people have already fled, but if you look closely you can see port workers unloading the last few cargo ships," Bëor explained. Of course he'd know all these things—and he'd also insist on telling them to me at length.

The port of Harlond was only a brick-and-stone industrial park on the riverside, but the Great River, the Anduin—now that was impressive. The little specks alongside the piers turned out to be ships—not just pleasure craft either, but big cargo ships. At this point, the Anduin had to be nearly as wide as—well, not as wide as the Mississippi, but certainly wider than the Colorado.

"If you look to the east you can see the fires of Mordor," Bëor concluded grimly.

Mordor was not a pretty sight. In the eastern sky the clouds were black and roiling from the dust and vapor thrown up by Mount Doom. I couldn't tell by looking whether the mountain was getting ready to blow its top—but I knew enough about LOTR to be sure that it was. At that very moment, two hobbits were walking up to the very lip of an active volcano. Tolkien or no Tolkien, how could they survive?

I was staring east and trying to remember what I'd read about Krakatoa when Bëor said somberly, "The land of Mordor where the shadows lie…"

I didn't want to hear that narration again, so I asked hastily, "How many soldiers do you think that Sauron has?"

"Too many. Far too many."

Before Bëor could give me a more precise answer, somebody with sharp eyes called out from further down the line, "Riders coming fast out of the east!"

That somebody was Serindë, of course.

There was a big cloud of dust kicking up in the east, and in front of it, a few—a very few—horsemen were galloping toward the Great Gate in full retreat. They had to be Faramir's Rangers. Before they could get very far into the Pelennor Fields, another group of riders shot past the Rammas Echor in hot pursuit. The second group wasn't riding horses—their mounts were shaggy and brown and low to the ground.

More warg riders, and it looked like the wargs were catching up.

I held my breath, hoping that the Rangers could pull just a little more speed out of their exhausted horses, when Bëor said in wonderment, "Look, more riders out of the north. It is the men of Rohan!"

He was right!

Thousands of Riders were charging onto the Pelennor Fields! Even I could recognize King Théoden's cloak and battle armor, and if I'd really come from Rohan I would have known the banners of all the éoreds, too.

The King must have realized the tactical situation instantly, because all of our cavalry rode forward to rescue Prince Faramir's Rangers. Facing impossible odds, the warg riders turned tail and fled.

I was so proud!

Before we could even finish cheering, another cavalry group breached the Rammas Echor, this time from the east, and galloped toward the Riders of Rohan.

I'd never guessed that Sauron might have had human servants who rode horses too, but there they were. Swaddled in black robes like Bedouin, they poured into the battleplain on big dark horses that were almost as fast as ours.

I realized sickeningly that we were outnumbered at least two to one, and then the two cavalries met and merged in a roiling, swift-moving mass. Even from that distance I could hear battle yells and screams but we were too far away to make out any details. I couldn't, anyway.

For a moment I wished that I had binoculars, and then I was glad that I didn't.

A strong hand suddenly grabbed my shoulder. "Come with me, Barbarella!" Princess Éowyn shouted. "I must speak to Lord Húrin at once!"

Without bothering to ask why, I followed her down those scary stairs at top speed. After I stepped through the hem of my skirt and nearly pitched myself onto the stones twenty feet below, I slowed to a more cautious pace. I wouldn't be of much use to my Princess if I was shattered into bits. By the time I reached the bottom, Éowyn was already stomping through the courtyard yelling, "Lord Húrin! Lord Húrin!" at the top of her lungs.

I'd barely caught up to her when we saw Lord Húrin in the midst of a crowd of Gondorian soldiers. He wore heavy plate armor as easily as a soldier half his age, and his broadsword was as ginormous as Aragorn's Andúril. As I watched, Haldred pushed his way through the soldiers to bring Lord Húrin over to our Princess.

"The Riders of Rohan have arrived, Princess Éowyn." A brief smile crossed Lord Húrin's stern features.

"Aye, and they are fighting twice their number of Sauron's horsemen," Éowyn answered bluntly. "Are you prepared to support them if they retreat?"

"We shall open the Great Gate if the tide of battle goes against them."

"And when do you mean to clear the area within the Gate, my lord? If our Riders retreat at full gallop they will trample the people sheltering in the courtyard and markets, and our warhorses will collide with the wagons and furniture and be maimed." Éowyn is a take-charge kind of gal, and she didn't have much patience for Lord Húrin's non-cavalry point of view. Take my word for it, it's a horse thing.

Lord Húrin was taken aback for a moment, so I pointed out helpfully, "Princess Éowyn is referring to the refugees from Harlond. You know, the homeless people you walked past to get here. Didn't you see them?"

"I know what she means." Lord Húrin's face hardened. "It was on my orders that they were allowed within the Gate. But we do not have enough time to move them to the barracks on the second level."

Lord Húrin was thinking 'big picture'—but luckily, I was seeing the small picture. "There's plenty of room inside the storefronts! Half of the shops on Lampwright's Street have been locked up for the duration. Open them up and send the people there!" I glanced over at Éowyn to see how she'd react to my admittedly pushy suggestion.

What Éowyn said was: "If you cannot do this thing, Lord Húrin, then I will. Haldred! Find me an axe!"

That was my Warrior Princess, all right!

I'll bet you think that our boy Haldred freaked out at the thought of his Princess chopping her way through the shopping district of Minas Tirith. Well, you would be wrong. Éowyn was acting as a true daughter of Eorl—swift, sure and violent in support of her people.

Exactly like she was supposed to.

Haldred gave her a ferocious smile and tapped his forehead in a sign of obedience. "Yes, my Princess!"

Before he could charge off, Lord Húrin clamped down hard on Haldred's shoulder. "That will not be necessary. I accept your plan—but understand, I can spare only a few soldiers to support it."

By this time Merry had shown up—it had taken him even longer to get down those stairs than it had me! So I told him, "We're going to need help to move all the refugees to safety. Can you run down to the Old Brassworks and find Zubair? He should know which shops we can open up to house them."

Merry's jaw dropped, but he nodded. Lord Húrin tossed a heavy keyring toward him and Merry leaped to catch it. "Take these skeleton keys, young halfling, and tell the shop owners that you speak with my voice."

Striding to the foot of the 'King Earnur the Equestrian' statue, Lord Húrin proclaimed loudly that everyone in the courtyard should immediately move themselves and their belongings to a place of safety. His soldiers would tell them where to go, he said, then snapped his fingers at a few nearby soldiers to summon them to the task.

Lord Húrin wasn't joking about the 'few.' He only gave us three. The first was a middle-aged soldier with one eye, the second was a scared kid who didn't look much older than twenty, and the third—I kid you not—was wearing a red shirt over his mail-tunic. There was a guy who needed to stay away from lethal situations!

When Princess Éowyn heard Lord Húrin's proclamation, she sighed and stripped off her gold scarf. The people would be more cooperative if they saw the White Tree of Gondor on her hauberk, and we needed all the cooperation we could get.

At any minute, the Gate of Minas Tirith could open wide to let the Riders of Rohan gallop in. Before that happened, we six would have to prod hundreds of evacuees and their possessions out of their stopping-places in the middle of the right-of-way and bully them down the road to Lampwright's Street.

Impossible?

In the words of the Seabee motto, _The difficult we do immediately; the impossible takes a little longer._

Fortunately, most of the evacuees were Gondorian. They rose to their feet, grabbed their families and their treasures, and trudged after the soldiers—and Princess Éowyn!—with barely a murmur. Some of the big tough guys with tattoos—port stevedores, by the look of them—shoved crates, boxes, and barrels next to the wall and out of the way.

Not everyone on the street, however, was Gondorian. A lot of these people were foreigners who were unfamiliar with the city. They were confused by Lord Húrin's quick, peremptory orders and often simply incapable of understanding the words he was saying.

Here was a job for me—the girl with the magic 'Universal Translator.'

Expecting at any moment to see killer warhorses stampeding toward us, I exhorted, cajoled, and sometimes threatened the uncomprehending laggards who refused to budge:

A flock of heavily-made-up bar girls all chattering in different tongues. (Their only common language seemed to be 'body.') Move or else!

The usual group of overwhelmed mommies who were dragging their children with one hand and lugging the family treasures in the other hand. I resolved that situation by handing over the wrigglier toddlers into the arms of the bar girls, simultaneously shocking both groups.

Finally, the livestock. I chased a few goats down the street, then pushed a wobbly cart piled with wicker cages full of finches to help a little old man who was wearing a pigtail and pointy shoes.

When our straggling procession reached Lampwright's Street, I was relieved to discover that Merry and Zubair—flanked by a delegation of nervous shopkeepers—were waiting for us. The shopkeepers weren't happy about allowing refugees into the closed shops, Merry told me, but they would accept it since it was Lord Húrin's order. He'd also received word that any children and the women caring for them were to be housed in the Old Guesthouse, so I guess the bar girls caught a break that time.

Princess Éowyn went away shortly thereafter, but I was so busy that I hardly saw her go. For one thing, a lot of people needed to be told what was going on and what would be expected of them. For another, it was obvious that the shopkeepers were afraid that these squatters from Harlond were going to steal from their absent neighbors.

I figured it would help to create a list of contact persons for every shop that had been opened up to evacuees. Armed with a slateboard and a piece of chalk, I wandered from door to door pressing the flesh, listening to everyone's complaints, and writing down the name of whoever seemed to be taking charge.

In one shop I was sorely tempted to try a little five-finger discount myself. It was an upscale fabric and yarn shop that we were using to quarter three different families of wine merchants. Next to the yarn wall on a display table there was a three-foot-tall White Tree of Gondor with silver filigree leaves. On every branch of that pretty silver tree hung a pair of knitted stockings.

I needed new stockings so bad! My own socks had been shredded into doilies on the long, awful ride to Minas Tirith, and the coarse-knit black stockings that I was wearing probably belonged to Narbeleth. They sure looked it, anyway. But I didn't have a dime to my name.

As I reluctantly turned from temptation, I noticed that one of the merchants was watching me. He was short, olive-skinned, and as bald as Patrick Stewart, but his long beard was curly and black, so it was impossible for me to guess his age. Snapping back into survey-taker mode, I asked, "What is your name, please? We need to know who is staying in each shop."

"I am Loh'kan of Doh'winion," he answered in a very thick drawl. "What is yoah name, Flametop?"

"My name is Barbarella."

"What soh't of a name is that?"

I had a brief flashback to the snotty jerks in middle school who'd hassled me with the same question, but one thing I could be sure of—this guy had never seen the movie. "It means 'foreign woman.'"

Lorkan winked at me from under luxuriant black eyebrows and dropped five copper pieces under the silver White Tree. "Take whichevah stockings you want. We outlandahs must stick togethah, and even in Gondah a shop could not chahge moah."

It was crass of me, but I took Lorkan up on his offer and picked a pair of stockings that were pale ivory with embroidered gold sunflowers. I was getting so sick of the Minas Tirith 'basic black.'


	18. Zero Hour

**Usual disclaimers and thanks**: Nothing is mine, etc., etc.

Thanks to my betas, eekfrenzy and Rose—and thanks also to my reviewers.

Reviews are my only reward. I like them a lot.

This is Thanksgiving week in the U.S. so I don't know if I'll have time to post. But who knows, maybe by the weekend I'll be sick of travel and feasting and get back to the computer.

_cjsl8ne_: 'Princess Éowyn takes charge and Barbarella makes it work for her.' – In one sentence, that's one of the major things I'm trying to do in this story. (It's pretty rare to see the OFC trying to empower somebody **else**…)

**Chapter 18 Zero Hour**

Later that evening I was in the Old Guesthouse, trying to help the cook make a 'stone soup' for the evacuees out of some of the funny-looking foodstuffs they'd brought with them. We'd heard wild rumors all afternoon about the battle—we'd won a great victory, it had been a terrible defeat, an army of halflings had shown up with shortbows and mopped up the enemy—but nothing that I dared believe. We hadn't been eaten by orcs and there weren't any Ringwraiths overhead—that's all I really knew.

Disheveled and panting, Haldred burst into the guesthouse kitchen. "Barbarella! Come with me at once to the house of Húrin."

I dropped the kohlrabi I'd been slicing. "What's up?"

"King Théoden is dead. Princess Éowyn needs you."

No! Oh, no!

We ran all the way to Húrin's mansion. Once Mornacollo let us in, Narbeleth led me to a bedchamber on the second floor that probably belonged to Lord Húrin. Wax candles in silver wall sconces shone faintly on a big canopy bed with blue satin hangings. Éowyn was hunched over on a little stool by the bed.

I could see King Théoden's body through a gap in the bed hangings. His eyes were closed and his face was as pale as Prince Théodred's had been. The coverlet was pulled up to his chin, but he didn't look like he'd been horribly chopped up. That was a small mercy, at least.

Éowyn was rocking back and forth and covering her eyes and her mouth with her hands. I couldn't begin to imagine how terrible this was for her—the only person in my family that I remembered dying was my Gramma, and she'd been sick for a long time and ready to go.

Éowyn had lost nearly everyone.

No words that I could say would make this better, so I went over and hugged her tight. For a while I just stood there silently stroking her hair, then Éowyn said in a dull voice, "I was told that King Théoden's horse Snowmane was shot by a Southron archer and rolled on him. Beregond brought him here to—to die. The men of Gondor wanted to take my uncle to the healers, but he said no, he was broken up inside. The healers should practice their art where there was some use. He saw me before the end and he knew me, and he told me that I was brave."

Éowyn broke out in a racking sob and clutched my shoulders. "But I don't feel brave! Oh, Barbarella, don't die. Please don't die."

"I'm so sorry about King Théoden—" I started to say.

"No, do not speak of it. If we speak of it my heart will break."

Resting her tear-wet cheek on my collarbone, Éowyn finally choked out, "Companies of enemy footsoldiers are flooding into the Pelennor. Our Riders are split, and Éomer and his éored are holding on a hill that overlooks the docks. Marshal Erkenbrand does not know what my brother will be able to do next."

It was dreadful even to think this, but we were at war and there was no time for Éowyn to grieve. Once I thought she'd calmed down a little, I exerted gentle pressure under her arms to pull her to her feet. "Look, Éowyn, right now we can't do anything to help your brother and you know that Erkenbrand doesn't need your advice. C'mon, you need to rest if you can, because tomorrow we have to be ready to fight."

We passed Narbeleth just outside the doorway as I was leading Éowyn out of the bedchamber. I jerked my head back toward Théoden's body and mouthed the words 'Take over.' The old housekeeper nodded silently and glided into the room as we departed.

When Éowyn and I got back to our room on the third floor, she yanked the blankets and pillows from her bed and tossed them off. That night we slept side by side on the floor.

My first thought when I woke up the next morning was that we were having a thunderstorm. The sky was dark and brassy and I could hear a booming rumble to the east. I reached over to shake Éowyn awake but she was already throwing off the blankets.

"What's that sound?" I asked Éowyn. "What's going on out there?"

"I do not know—let's go look." She climbed the three marble steps to the bay window landing, pressed her forehead against the glass—and gasped in horror. That bay window gives you a really good view of most of the Pelennor Fields. When I joined her, I could see exactly what was going on and why she'd gasped.

Sauron's orc infantry had moved in overnight and filled up the Pelennor. Line after line of troops was marching up to surround the gate—just outside arrow range. The rumbling I'd heard was the sound of thousands of enemy soldiers on the march and war weapons rolling closer and closer.

Éowyn's voice trembled. "Saruman's army was greater than I could have imagined, but this one is at least three times larger. What can we possibly do against such a tremendous number?"

I reassured her as best I could. "Don't forget, we don't need to win—we just need to hold out a little longer."

Remembering the two hobbits whose names we dared not speak this close to Mordor, Éowyn nodded slowly. "I fear that my brother will not be able to hold out very much longer. Look to the South—can you see Éomer's Riders?"

"Your eyes are better than mine. I'm afraid I can't—" Struck by simultaneous inspiration, we both shouted, "Serindë!"

Grabbing the clothes that the indispensable Narbeleth had left for us, we washed and dressed in record time. She'd given Éowyn a slate-blue tunic and grey leggings, as befits a woman warrior. For me there was another rusty black dress. More widow's weeds, yuck. But at least this time I had sunflower stockings.

As she cinched her white leather belt, Éowyn commented, "Serindë will be at the Wall, I have no doubt about that."

"On it, I should think—waiting for the first stupid orc to wander inside bowrange."

Both of us knew that Serindë wouldn't settle for anywhere but the top of the Great Wall. We rushed downstairs and out the door without even hunting up something to eat. Neither Éowyn nor I felt very much like having breakfast just then.

It was midmorning, but roiling black clouds in the east obscured the sun and made the sunlight weak and puny. I had to stop and stare when we hit the streets. There must have been an ashfall overnight, because the streets and the buildings were coated by a thin layer of colorless grey. It made me feel like I'd walked into the middle of an old black-and-white movie.

As Éowyn and I hurried to the Great Gate I realized that the street was empty. All of the shopwindows had been covered, although I once saw a woman peering out fearfully through a slightly-opened shutter. By this time everybody on the first level of the city must have been scared out of their wits.

The people of Minas Tirith had reason to be afraid. The mightiest army Middle-earth had ever seen was massing right outside their gates. By the end of this day or the next, the Enemy would rain down destruction on us all.

When we reached the courtyard I was hit by several dreadful noises from outside—clashing swords, the marching of many feet, and a constant roaring of hatred. The inner gateyard was dim and dull, but crowded. Noticeably segregated into two companies, hundreds of armored men grimly waited for the fighting to start. The soldiers of Gondor stood to the right of the Gate; to the left were an equal number of Riders of Rohan.

We were all defending the city of Minas Tirith from a mutual enemy, but we were as sharply divided as if we were the Home Team and the Away Team.

When the Riders recognized us a loud cheer arose from the Rohan side of the Gate. (When they recognized Princess Éowyn, that is—I'm just a handmaiden.) I waved enthusiastically anyway, although I didn't know any of the Riders. From the white star blazons on their armor they must have been Erkenbrand's men.

An old bald guy in a fancy steel-and-bronze helmet stepped forward to meet us. It was Erkenbrand—I recognized him from the big festivities after the Battle of Helm's Deep. That was good—the King had always trusted Marshal Erkenbrand.

The big question was, where was Marshal Éomer?

As Erkenbrand clasped Éowyn's shoulder and drew her aside, Éowyn whispered hastily, "I must confer now with Marshal Erkenbrand. Do what is needful while I am gone, Barbarella."

What was most needful right then? Finding Serindë, obviously. I darted a look at the big staircase leading to the top of the Wall, but it didn't require a military mastermind to catch the ACCESS DENIED vibes all the way up those stairs. There was no way I could barge up there. Worst case scenario, I could spark a squabble that would draw the proud warriors of Rohan and the prickly soldiers of Gondor into violent conflict.

For a while my mind went blank. I sidled back and forth, staring up that four-story wall and trying to spot Serindë, but in all that crenellated architecture I couldn't spot anything. Meanwhile, the Gondorian soldiers were staring at the strange woman who was dressed in ordinary clothing but who had such extraordinary red hair.

It felt weird to know that I was in the middle of all these people and not one of them knew my name or had any idea about what I was doing there. Then I realized how odd that was. I'd lived in cities surrounded by total strangers all of my life and I'd accepted that as completely normal. But in Middle-earth it felt different somehow.

Eventually, having thought up no better plan, I cupped my hands around my mouth and yelled to the heights, "Serindë! Where are you? It's me, Barbarella! I need to talk to you!"

Okay, **now** the Gondorians knew my name. The soldiers looked at me strangely, as if I was screaming in a library, but apparently yelling up at the Wall wasn't actually prohibited.

"Serindë! Serindë! I know you're up there!"

No dice. No matter how loudly I shouted, she didn't answer.

After I had managed to make a total fool of myself, I spotted Beregond coming from the direction of the South Markets. He's a platinum blond, so in his black-and-silver armor and his swoopy ebon cloak he fit in perfectly with the day's silent movie motif. Then he called out to me and broke the illusion.

"Barbarella! Where is Princess Éowyn? I must speak to her."

Since Beregond worked for Lord Denethor, I wasn't about to tell him that Éowyn was palavering with Marshal Erkenbrand on secret matters of state. I smoothed down my voluminous black gown and waited for him to approach, then answered in a carefully neutral voice, "I don't see her right now. What do you want? I will help you if I can."

Poor Beregond was distressed; his fluffy eyebrows wouldn't quit quivering. Staring down at the toes of his highly-polished black boots, he chose his words with care. "Lord Denethor says that he has reconsidered his earlier decision. He now offers accommodations to Princess Éowyn and her diplomatic party in the White Tower. A suite is being prepared close to his rooms so that he may more easily confer with the Princess."

Yeah, sure he'd reconsidered it. The Riders of Rohan had shown up and some of them were at that moment defending the Gate, so now he wanted to get all diplomatic and polite. Blatant, Lord Denethor, real blatant.

But you don't kill the messenger just because you hate the message. I said primly, "Please give Princess Éowyn's thanks to Lord Denethor, and tell him that she will come as quickly as she can. But the dead body of her uncle lies even now in the bedchamber of Lord Húrin. She must first give honor to the King according to the customs of Rohan."

Beregond's smooth forehead creased and he seemed to be sweating a little. "Should I tell him 'no'?"

"By no means—tell him 'yes'!" I smiled sweetly. "As soon as Princess Éowyn's duties to her King have been fulfilled, she will join your Steward in the White Tower."

Heh! Denethor should live so long.

"I am sorry to trouble you like this in a time of grief, Lady Barbarella."

"You needn't worry about it. But if I were you, I would try not to hassle the Princess in front of the Riders of Rohan."

Surveying our fierce warriors, Beregond grimaced in understanding. He isn't a stupid man—he just hates politics. Don't we all?

"Have you any news about Prince Faramir and his Rangers?" I asked him. "The last I saw of them, they were retreating to Minas Tirith a few steps ahead of the enemy."

"Prince Faramir and his men—the few that survived—are being cared for in our Houses of Healing. Most of them were badly wounded but they will live, and this would not be so were it not for the bravery of the men of Rohan. We owe them much, and I offer you my own deepest thanks."

'Prince' Faramir—and 'Prince' Boromir too, now that I thought of it. Why was that, I suddenly wondered. Denethor wasn't a King. "How well do you know Prince Faramir?"

"When he had more time to spend in Minas Tirith I was Prince Faramir's equerry, so I know him somewhat better than most. He is the Captain of the Rangers of Ithilien, who fight secretly against the orcs who have overrun that land. Prince Faramir is the Lord Steward's second son. He is well loved in the city, second only to his elder brother Prince Boromir, who is rumored to have fallen to the Enemy."

Gosh, wasn't Lord Denethor on the 'well loved' list too? Seeing the worry on Beregond's face, I slipped in a little 'second sight.' "I've heard that rumor too. I heard that Boromir died valiantly, fighting a great number of orcs."

"That sounds like him," Beregond sighed. Squaring his shoulders to an unpleasant task, he bade me farewell and headed off to relay my message to Lord Denethor.

This left me exactly where I'd been before—trying to figure out how to reach Serindë. I was about to start yelling again when somebody behind me unexpectedly spoke my name and scared me out of my wits.

"Lady Barbarella."

I spun around and saw that I had been accosted by one of the archers of Lothlórien. He was blond and bland and wore silver fishscale armor like all the rest of them but his foxy face was much narrower than Captain Haldir's, and unlike Serindë, he seemed to know how to smile.

"Uh…that's me. And you are?"

"Did I startle you? I am sorry. My name is Rúmil. I command the group of Elves within the city. What did you wish to say to Serindë?"

"Ummm…I need to know whether sh… whether Serindë has seen Prince Éomer and his Riders. Princess Éowyn is concerned about her brother and we figured that an Elf's eyesight would be better than ours."

"You are correct, we have seen them. Éomer's Riders and two hundred of our Elves have fallen back to the docks," Rúmil said gravely. "You may assure Princess Éowyn that her brother's situation is not hopeless. My brother is out there with him and he has no intention of dying. They are waiting for a suitable opening so that they can charge the enemy again."

"Your brother?"

"My brother is Captain Haldir. I believe that he spoke of me to you, Barbarella."

"Oh, yeah, I remember that!" After I'd fast-talked Haldir into healing Fréalof, he'd instructed me to tell Elric, the poor kid's brother, that he had a younger brother too.

Rúmil smiled reminiscently. "No mortal has won an argument against Haldir for at least a thousand years. It was most entertaining to hear about it."

A thousand years! I was speaking to somebody with the lifespan of a glacier! Better not to think about that, Barbarella. "The stakes were a lot higher for me than they were for him. I was arguing for the life of a child. When you see your brother again, please tell him that he carried out his pledge nobly."

"Yes, he always does. It is his redeeming virtue." As Rúmil turned to get back to his archers, he added offhandedly, "You should leave this place very soon. The orcs are bringing up catapults."

What? We'd been standing around chatting in a place where they were going to lob missiles?

'Very soon'? Yes, very, very, very soon. Just as soon as I could collect Éowyn and haul her out of harm's way!


	19. Prophecy Girl

**Usual disclaimers and thanks**: Nothing is mine, etc., etc.

Thanks to my betas, eekfrenzy and Rose—and thanks also to my reviewers.

Reviews are my only reward. I like them a lot.

It seems that many of my readers are Harry Potter and anime fans. I've never been big on HP but some of your favorites are really great, for example: 'The Best Revenge' (Arsinoe de Blassenville), Harry Potter and the Methods of Rationality (Less Wrong) and 'By the Light of the Moon' (MoriasDepths). And as for anime—can you guess why one of the young brothers is named Elric?

_cjsl8ne_: It's hard for me to understand how Princess Éowyn could keep fighting after everything she goes through, but she was raised to it and I expect that's what makes the difference.

_TLTL:_ Remember, there are two 'canons for _Return of the King_—movie and book—and I reserve the right to bounce between the two at need. It's true, I haven't damaged any major characters yet—but I reserve the right to do that too!

_Bmangaka: _I'm rather fond of Rúmil. Can you imagine how it would feel to be Haldir's little brother for centuries on end? No wonder he's a bit snarky….

**Chapter 19 Prophecy Girl**

I didn't have to wait very long for Éowyn, because she showed up just a little after that. Her face was blank and she was moving slowly and delicately, as if she was slightly drunk and trying not to fall down. Whatever Erkenbrand had told her must have knocked her for a loop.

Fortunately the soldiers—even the Rohirrim—were too busy to pay much attention to us. I'd just pass along my intel and then we'd deal somehow with whatever the problem was. Hustling over to Éowyn, I whispered, "Three things. First, the Elf captain says that Éomer's men and the Elves outside the Gate have fallen back to Harlond and are waiting for a good time to strike. Second, Beregond told me that Lord Denethor wants you up at the White Tower after all. I fobbed him off by saying that there were duties you needed to carry out for King Théoden first."

"You did well. No more cages for me!" she said grimly. "I let Marshal Erkenbrand know what we think about Denethor and also told him that the Warden of the Keys of Minas Tirith is Lady Morwen's brother and a trustworthy man. If need be, Erkenbrand will deal directly with Lord Húrin to defend this city."

She grabbed me by the shoulder and leaned on me as if she was actually drunk. "Oh, Barbarella—Erkenbrand says that if my brother is seen to fall on the field, he wants to proclaim me at once as Queen of Rohan. He says that we must do this to hearten the men."

Poor Éowyn. Poor us. As far as either of us knew, Éomer was still hale and hearty and his sister was already being told to prepare for his death. There was only one possible excuse for such an awful thing—that it was necessary for the good of Rohan.

"I'm so sorry, Éowyn." I squeezed her hand and said carefully, "But it's like your people say, 'Duty comes first.' That's the way this monarchy thing works, doesn't it?"

"I know it is, but I am not ready." Éowyn blew out a weary breath. "I do not even have any royal jewels with me."

Now that was something I could help with. "I brought your necklace with the gold sun medallion."

Éowyn managed to smile—with her lips, if not with her eyes. "Then I have two jewels."

What can you say to something like that? I had no idea how to tell Éowyn how proud she made me feel, so I swoozled around for a few seconds and then got back to a much more important topic. "Uh…the third thing you need to know is that we have to get out of here right now. The enemy's bringing up catapults."

Éowyn's eyes widened in horror. "Merry! Do you know where he is? We must find Merry!"

"I haven't got a clue! Maybe he's back at Húrin's mansion?"

Rattled and worried, we exited stage right—but just a little too late.

As soon as we set foot on the street leading to the market I heard twanging noises and soldiers' voices raised in outraged shouts. Éowyn and I swerved toward the side of the street, hoping that the cornices and protrusions of the buildings would protect us from a projectile's trajectory.

While I was sidling along and staring up nervously at the sullen sky, I spotted an incoming missile and hugged the wall even harder. It hit the pavement about twenty feet away from us and bounced. The missile…wasn't made of stone. It was a human head that had been hacked off at the gory neck, its straggly black hair drenched in clotted blood, half squashed on the cobblestones, with one eye dangling….

I don't want to talk about it.

Certainly, certainly the most important thing about War is that people are killed, but there is something so visceral, so primitive, so horrible about mutilating the corpse of something that used to be a man.

I guess this was Sauron's idea of softening us up.

Without saying a word, Éowyn and I turned tail and ran. All the way back home we didn't see a single other person on the street but us. The civilians were either too cowardly or too sane to stick their noses outside in the midst of all that hubbub.

When we got there Lord Húrin's door was shut and bolted, so we banged frantically to be let in.

The door was finally opened by Merry Brandybuck, who stood there wearing his Rohirric armor. His pale face and wide eyes revealed that he was as close to snapping as Éowyn and I. The only light in the whole long corridor came from his corroded green lantern.

"Where is everyone, Merry?" Éowyn demanded. "What has happened here?"

"Everybody's gone off except for Narbeleth and Mornacollo." Merry wet his lips with his tongue. "The three of us just finished moving the King's body down to the cellar."

"Take me to him," Éowyn said in a thin voice.

He gave her a jerky little nod and they headed down the corridor together, but I didn't follow. Before the light from Merry's lantern disappeared in the distance, I had to find Narbeleth.

It wasn't hard to spot the door with light coming from under it. As I'd expected, she and Mornacollo had holed up in the kitchen. It was the homiest place I'd seen in that whole ancestor-ridden house. A pleasant odor of cooking herbs hung in the air; copper pans on the plastered wall reflected yellow lamplight onto polished oaken counters.

Mornacollo was dozing in a chair by the oven and Narbeleth was sipping tea in one corner. When I barged in, Narbeleth's teacup clattered onto a counter and they both looked up hastily. "Barbarella! We thought you were all gone off to the war by now."

"No, we haven't left just yet."

"That boy of yours—Elric—he took your horses to the military stables on the sixth level," Mornacollo stammered.

I took a deep breath. "Look, Narbeleth, I know I'm being a pest, but we did come here to fight for your city. Can you get me a dress I can run in? Sooner or later these trailing skirts will trip me up and kill me."

Narbeleth pursed her lips, then nodded. "I can do this, yes."

I noticed that neither she nor Mornacollo were shaking their heads in denial at my self-accusation. "Okay, thanks. And can you give me some sort of light so I don't need to feel my way up the stairs?"

Wordlessly, Narbeleth touched a candle to one of the oil lamps and handed it to me. I couldn't tell from her expressionless face whether or not I'd offended her, not that it mattered so much. As soon as I got that candle I was off to collect Éowyn's pendant.

In our bedchamber, at least, plenty of afternoon sunlight was coming in through the bay window. The sun-symbol pendant was tucked into a pillowcase in my saddlebag, right where I'd left it. I probably should have gone back downstairs as soon as I grabbed it, but the big east-facing bay window was the best observation point I was likely to get of the Pelennor Fields. I crossed over to the window and looked.

There were more orcs out in that field than there were people in Minas Tirith—even if you count soldiers, women and children, foreigners like me, everybody. The Pelennor was crammed with orcs right up to what was probably bowshot-range. Like Roman soldiers they were massed in bronze ranks, century after century of them, separated by trenches filled with blazing pitch or oil.

On the horizon, Mount Doom glowered like a forest fire, molten red and throwing up clouds of ominous grey smoke. Straining my eyes to make out details at the edge of my vision, I kept looking and looking for something that I didn't see. Where were the monsters? Sauron had plenty of terrible monsters on the string. What was he going to throw at us besides the orcs?

It was almost a relief when I finally spotted a bunch of massive humanoids shambling around big derrick-like structures that were probably siege towers. Most likely they were cave trolls. I knew from the first movie that cave trolls are doable. We'd have to beat orcs in mass quantities, the Nazgûl, killer pterodactyls, and now cave trolls. It didn't look like Sauron had any more hole cards up his spectral sleeve.

By the time I got downstairs, somebody had lit a few candles in the sitting room. Éowyn and Narbeleth were watching as Mornacollo fussed over Merry's armor. He gave Merry's red-leather hauberk one more fierce tug, then creaked up from his knees. "There! It is done. Fitting armor is an art, young halfling. You wouldn't get very far in battle if your armor didn't fit right."

Puzzled, Merry shrugged his shoulders up and down and around to check the fit. "I have no idea what could have happened. In Edoras this armor fit me perfectly."

Meanwhile, Narbeleth had picked up a bundle of amber cloth from one of the octagonal tables and was thrusting it into my hands. "This is what you asked for, Barbarella."

Unfolding the bundle, I found a calf-length silk robe with tiny mother-of-pearl buttons sewn down the front and up the half-sleeves. It was gorgeous, and it did fulfill my requirements, but boy, did it look like lingerie!

I nearly opened my mouth to ask about that, but decided against it at the last second. I needed something like this if I was going to do what I had to do, and I wouldn't have the guts to go outside in it if I knew for a fact that it was a nightgown!

So what I actually said was, "Thank you, Narbeleth. You have given us all that we asked for—and more." Recalling the siege towers, the orcs, and the trolls, I added carefully, "I was in another siege not too long ago, and if I learned one thing, it's that the healers need all the help they can get. I recommend that you and Mornacollo go up to the sixth level and volunteer to help out at the Houses of Healing. For the good of the city, of course."

After a surreptitious appraisal of Mornacollo, Narbeleth said slowly, "I think that you are right. We will do as you suggest. You three should leave quickly too, for soon the streets will not be safe."

Before she'd even finished speaking, Mornacollo was barrelling out the sitting room door. Those two old servants were too loyal and too proud to desert their posts without a good reason, but they must have been terrified at the prospect of staying by themselves in a house so close to the front lines.

Merry went off with the two Gondorians—to help them pack, most likely—while Éowyn helped me change into Narbeleth's robe. As she hauled my 'widow's weeds' over my head, she said worriedly, "Barbarella, what shall I do now? You foretold that I would fight the Witch-King at the gates of Minas Tirith, but Lord Húrin's men will not open the Great Gate for me. In any case, if I walk out into all those orcs I will face sure death."

She was right! 'Dernhelm' would have been outside on the Pelennor, but Princess Éowyn was stuck inside the city. Had I screwed up everything with my 'foretelling'?

I took a moment to think while I was wriggling out of that engulfing black dress, and once I was clear of it I said, "Everybody seems to believe that the Elf knew what he was saying when he made that prophecy, and I'm sure that the prophecy is about you."

Agitated, Éowyn was pacing back and forth. "But I am trapped within the city walls! How can I fulfill the prophecy now?"

"No, hear me out! It's like—it's like the story of Oedipus, a King's son who was told a prophecy that he was doomed to kill his father. He fled the country to evade his fate, but everything that he did brought that fate closer to him."

Éowyn stopped pacing and said thoughtfully, "It is true that I would not be in Mundberg if not for your foretelling. Do you think that this is all part of my weird?"

It was hard to answer that one, because I don't believe in fate. I said hastily, "Look, what's important is that we're here now. Let's stop worrying about prophecies and start being smart. The Witch-King is supposed to be very war-wise and cunning. You've seen what Minas Tirith is like. If you were the Witch-King, what would you do when you got here?"

I wasn't just humoring her—I really wanted to know. I had studied linguistics—but my Princess had studied Middle-earth history and war. And she was darn good at both, if you ask me. Éowyn looked startled, but there was nobody within earshot to sneer at a 'mere girl' planning high strategy. Sitting down in an upholstered chair, she rested her chin on her knuckles to think. While she was cogitating I slipped on the amber silk robe and began to work my way down a very long row of buttons.

Eventually Éowyn slapped her hand on her knee. "If I were the Witch-King, I would care nothing for the soldiers of Gondor nor for any of the defenses of the city. That is what orcs are for. If I were Angmar, I would attempt to slay Gandalf the Wizard—if I dared to try. And I think he would dare, to please his dread Lord."

She was absolutely right! Without wizardly magic or leadership, the city defenses wouldn't be worth spit.

"The question is, how would the Witch-King entrap him? Gandalf rode out of the city once before to fight, but there were no orcs in the Pelennor then," Éowyn mused. "I cannot imagine what I would do to draw him out."

I didn't even have to imagine—it was so obvious! "That's because you're thinking two-dimensionally, Éowyn. The Witch-King is able to fly on his…uh, taerodrake, and for him, the higher the better, because it takes him out of the Elves' arrow range. He could use the walled area past the Courtyard of the White Tree as a landing strip, and up on the seventh level the Citadel's only defenders are a handful of Tower Guards. Gandalf would have to ride up and confront him, and the tunnel he'd have to ride through would be a perfect mousetrap."

Éowyn said cautiously, "If we go to the seventh level we will be under the eye of Lord Denethor."

I grinned at her. "Don't you think it's time we checked up on our horses? Mornacollo says they were moved to the stables on Level Six."

And that settled that. As soon as Merry came back to the sitting room, we marched right up to the sixth level stables. On the higher levels I saw a few more people out on the streets, but the city was so crazy-tense that no one even bothered to notice a shieldmaiden of Rohan with the White Tree on her armor, a hobbit carrying a green lantern, or an embarrassed redhead who'd swaddled herself in a grey elven cloak.


	20. We Will Be Invincible

**Usual disclaimers and thanks**: Nothing is mine, etc., etc.

Thanks to my betas, eekfrenzy and Rose—and thanks also to my reviewers.

Reviews are my only reward. I like them a lot.

As Dwight Eisenhower once said during World War II, "plans are nothing, planning is everything." Barbarella and Éowyn may not know what's going on, but they know what they're doing—and that gives them an edge.

**Chapter 20 We Will Be Invincible**

By the time the three of us reached the sixth level it was beginning to get dark. It wasn't even evening yet, but Mount Doom was still spitting out dark clouds and the sun sets early behind Mount Mindolluin, which is directly west of the city.

All of the buildings on the sixth level are made of ancient stone—including the stables. Once you've been to the White Tower you've walked past everything in the city, so we knew where the sixth level stables were. There were two stable buildings, so I wasn't sure which one held our horses, but Éowyn nodded instantly at the first. "That one. I cannot mistake the neigh of a horse of Rohan."

Merry and I traded a look and a shrug. Of course she couldn't.

We didn't go inside right off, though. On the east wing of the Houses of Healing there's an exterior staircase that leads up to a wide balcony. We couldn't resist the opportunity to see what was happening in the Pelennor Fields.

What Éowyn led us up the stairs to was practically an observation deck—it only lacked the telescopes. Nobody else was there, but I wouldn't have really expected to find anyone loitering outside. I knew from personal experience that at this stage of the battle, the medical personnel were working like crazed maniacs.

In the gathering dark, I couldn't make out much of what was going on below. Even the battle cries were faint. It did seem like they'd stopped flinging rocks—or other objects—but the earlier volleys had smashed a lot of walls. I noticed a pile of white stone below that was probably a collapsed buttress, and wondered how many people had died when it fell down.

We heard a lot of yelling and Merry cried out, "Look! What is that thing down there?"

Peering toward the ground, I saw that several orcs and a couple of cave trolls were pushing something big and black toward the Gate.

"It is a battering ram," Éowyn said tersely. "The enemy is trying to break the Gate."

But they never reached it! The trolls and orcs pushed forward and pushed forward, but the ram slowed and stopped before it could touch the Gate, surrounded by a horrid pile of dead orcs and trolls. Gondorian archers are good—but elven archers are superhuman. I could easily imagine Serindë shooting out the eyes of those trolls—one by one.

Even at that distance I could hear our guys shouting themselves hoarse in jubilation. We listened for awhile but eventually the evening star came out—drilled through the smoky haze, actually—and Éowyn announced, "We must go. There is much for us to do."

Retracing our steps, we went back to look for our horses. It felt awful to walk away from the battle without knowing what would happen next. But then, neither did anyone else in the city.

The stable that Éowyn picked was lit by a couple of oil lanterns, so Merry extinguished his own lamp when we walked in. I would never have imagined that anyone would build a stable out of stone, but this one had been. The stalls were made out of wood, though, and the floors were well-covered with straw and dry grass.

Éowyn moved quickly down the row of stalls. I followed her and noticed that most of them were empty. Minas Tirith doesn't have very much of a cavalry—and to be cruelly blunt about it, they'd just sent out a lot of their horses to be slaughtered.

Marshal Erkenbrand must have stashed his horses on the first level—to keep them out of Denethor's control, maybe—because most of the Rohirric horses in the stable were the ones that had been injured in the battle and were out of action. Éowyn cringed a little when she saw them, but she marched stalwartly on. I didn't have to think twice to know that Elric wouldn't think much of the stableboys who were caring for them.

We found our own horses at the back of the stable. The two elven horses looked up and nickered softly, the warhorses of Rohan were chowing down from their mangers, and Bëor's fuzzy pony was fast asleep.

A grey-haired man in battered Rohirric armor was crouched next to their stalls. His right arm was caught up in a sling and he seemed utterly exhausted, but when he heard us coming he jumped to his feet and shouted, "Princess Éowyn! I did not think to see you here!"

"Guthláf! Nor I, you," she answered warily.

There were tears in the poor man's eyes as he limped over to meet us. "Princess, I could not save my King. I do not even know where his body lies."

"That I can tell you, Guthláf. Before he died, Théoden King was taken from the field and brought to the home of Lord Húrin, Warden of the Keys of Minas Tirith." Guthláf looked stricken when he heard that his King's body was in the hands of strangers, so she added quickly, "This was rightly done, for they were kin. My uncle was Húrin's sister-son."

Guthláf's face set in a grim expression. "I shall go to that house and guard my King."

Trying to dissuade him, Éowyn said, "But all in the household have gone to fight or to work, and the door is locked."

"Then I shall stand on the doorstep," Guthláf said stubbornly.

Finally giving up on the argument, Éowyn said, "Well, go first to Marshal Erkenbrand and tell him that I shall abide tonight in this stable, for he wishes to know where I am. After that, do what you will."

His face determined, Guthláf nodded and tapped his forehead with two fingers, then limped off.

As we watched him leave, Éowyn said, "For many years Guthláf was the King's standard bearer. He dandled me on his knee when I was only a little girl, but I am a little girl no longer. We shall stay here until dawn with our horses, and then go out to war."

Clearing his throat, Merry ventured hopefully, "Isn't it time for dinner?"

Éowyn shook her head. "I am sorry, Merry, I have nothing to give you."

"That's all right, I brought some food along."

"We can always count on you for that, Master Merry," Éowyn said with a smile.

"If I didn't, I'd never get anything to eat." Merry untied the leather bag that hung next to his little sword. "As it is, I'm going to be a very thin hobbit when this war is over."

What Merry had brought was more flatbreads. They were stale and crispy, but I didn't intend to let that stop me. It suddenly occurred to me, "Merry, is that olive oil in your lantern?"

"I don't know, but I suppose you can taste it," Merry said with a startled expression. He didn't even let me touch his lantern—he just handed me a brown bottle full of oil. Apparently he wanted to be ready to overcome any amount of darkness.

I pulled the cork and tasted the oil inside. "Yes, it's olive oil. We can use it to soften the bread."

It wasn't as good as butter, but it did make the stale flatbread more palatable.

After that we had another night of sleeping next to the horses—but this time, we were indoors. I wrapped myself in my elven cloak and bedded down beside Nifredil, the one horse that I really trusted. Éowyn told us to listen for the scream of a taerodrake, but I'm afraid that I conked out as soon as I closed my eyes.

When I awoke the next morning—assuming that you call a few pink clouds in the east 'morning'—Éowyn and Merry had already risen. Besides her grandmother's armor, Éowyn was wearing a round steel helmet and heavy leather gloves. Serindë's elven blade was hanging at her side. For the first time, I noticed that Merry's blade was made of the same metal. Could his be one of those 'barrow blades' that he'd mentioned before?

Were there any last counsels that I could give my Princess? I suggested on the spur of the moment, "Maybe you should ride my horse today, Éowyn. An elven horse ought to be less frightened of the Nazgûl than a horse of Rohan would be."

You could tell from Éowyn's face that she didn't want to relinquish her own warhorse right before the battle. "Are you sure?"

I patted Nifredil's flank invitingly. "Not really—but I know that's what Serindë would tell you."

Without saying another word, Éowyn tacked up Nifredil, swung herself into the saddle, and pulled Merry up in front of her. It was time to go to war.

Outside the stable, the sixth level seemed deserted. Every door was shut; nobody but us was on the street. From First Level I heard distant yelling, but no wounded men were being brought through the tunnel to the Houses of Healing.

An unspoken ' now what' hung uneasily in the air.

So that horse and rider could get used to each other, Éowyn walked Nifredil back and forth for a while. I just stood there nervously. Suddenly we heard three small people running toward us from the north. It was Elric, Bergil, and Pippin—and Pippin was wearing the uniform of the Tower Guard!

As soon as they spotted each other, the two hobbits started to yell.

"Merry!"

"Pippin!"

"What are you—"

"—doing here?"

By the time the three of them reached us, Pippin was out of breath.

"Where's Gandalf?" he gasped frantically. "Got to find Gandalf!"

"He must be at the Great Gate, giving orders to the soldiers," replied Merry.

"What has happened?" Éowyn demanded.

"Denethor has lost his mind!" Pippin blurted out. "He's burning Faramir alive!"

What? No! Faramir wasn't supposed to die!

While we were trying to figure out what to do, Pippin bounced on his heels in an agony of indecision, announced, "I've got to find Gandalf!" and rabbited off toward the tunnel to Fifth Level.

Elric and Bergil remained with us, and I noticed with terror that they were looking to **me** for instructions.

Éowyn dismounted and asked Elric in Rohirric, "Where has Denethor taken Faramir?"

Surprisingly, it was Bergil who answered—haltingly—in the same tongue. "Lord Denethor took Prince Faramir into the King's House. He was ordering the Tower Guard to bring him wood and oil."

The King's House was on the seventh level, right where I'd said that the Witch-King would land. How convenient.

"Then we will go to the King's House. Let the Ruling Steward see me, I do not care," Éowyn said defiantly. Holding Nifredil's reins, she started to lead us up to the seventh level.

Before I could move, a gust of wind eddied at my back and I smelled the stench of rotting fish. From behind me I heard an earsplitting rusty shriek and a heavy flocka-flocka-flocka that sounded like an old windmill. I twisted around to see a nightmare straight out of Jurassic Park. One of Sauron's killer pterodactyls was swooping down in front of the Houses of Healing, not thirty yards from where we were standing.

As it came down, I realized just how enormous that horrible dinosaur-monster really was. The thing was the size of a U-Haul! It had the blocky grey predator-head of an Allosaurus, cruel yellow eyes and a mouth full of big sharp fangs, and batwings so gigantic they slapped the walls of the buildings on either side of the street.

Its horrible vast wings unfurled and unfurled and unfurled to finally reveal the creature's Nazgûl rider. He looked like Darth Vader in fluttering black robes with a void where his faceplate should be. Oh, and a tall spikey helmet that I guess was his crown. I didn't sense the miasma of evil visions, but my heart was still filled with terror.

"It is the Witch-King," Éowyn breathed. She let go of Nifredil's reins and said, "You cannot help me now, Barbarella. Help Faramir!"

Brandishing her sword in a two-handed grip, Princess Éowyn charged at top speed toward the monster and its terrible rider. Merry, who was still perched on top of Nifredil, lurched forward after her.

For about three seconds I stood there and watched, absolutely frozen in shock, and then I remembered that there were two kids standing right next to me. I had to get them out of there.

Clamping my hands onto their collars, I spun around Elric and Bergil and shoved them in the opposite direction. "Run, kids, run! Run now!"

Staggering and sobbing, the three of us ran as fast as we could until we reached the far curve of the street. A little past the Closed Door to the Mausoleums, I skidded to a stop and like Lot's wife, I looked back.

While we were running, Éowyn had closed with the taerodrake. It was whipping its head from side to side on that long, long neck and snapping at her with its fearsome teeth. I was afraid that it would bite her, but Éowyn sidestepped like a matador and—faster than I could follow—swung down her elven sword like a woodsman's axe and chopped through the monster's neck in a single 'whackety-whack'!

I didn't know whether to cheer or scream. The headless pterodactyl reared up convulsively and slowly collapsed. From the carcass of his beast, the Witch-King ponderously rose, a great black sword in his bony hand.

Éowyn dodged back, then pulled off her steel helmet and shook out her blonde hair. "I am no mortal man!" she shouted. "Behold me and know that you can die!"

"Fool. Do you not know Death when you see it?" the Nazgûl answered in the inhuman voice of a Terminator.

His black sword ignited into red flame and threw off visible waves of heat that smashed into Éowyn, jolted her sword from her hands, and threw her onto the stones of the street. Dazed and helpless on the ground, she seemed an easy prey as the Witch-King began a slow, deliberate advance toward her.

The situation seemed hopeless. I heard Nifredil scream out equine defiance and fury, but I didn't even notice when Merry dismounted and stood next to her.

Not until he threw his green lantern at the Witch-King.

Hobbits may not be great shakes as fighters but they sure have good throwing arms. That ungainly lantern flew straight and true, skimming the flames of the Witch-King's sword to hit dead center into what appeared to be the Nazgûl's chest.

Magical fire. Oil splashing from a lantern. Ancient, dry-as-dust fabric.

The Witch-King went up like a match!

He might have been a formidable black sorceror. He might have been the leader of the nine dreadful Nazgûl. He might have been Sauron's right-hand wraith. But he still had to douse those flames before he could do anything else!

While the Witch-King was flapping his robes around, Éowyn desperately rolled to her sword, grabbed it and sprang to her feet. Lungeing into the flames surrounding her enemy, she thrust the elven blade deep into the Nazgûl's empty face.

The battle cry of a Warrior Princess rang through the air:

"Yeeaahhh!"

Pulling myself back to my senses, I remembered that I had been given specific orders by my Princess to "Help Faramir!"

As we all know in Rohan: Duty. Comes. First.

Wheeling about, I grabbed the two boys and ran to the tunnel to the seventh level.


	21. Meanwhile, Back at the Palace

**Usual disclaimers and thanks**: Nothing is mine, etc., etc.

Thanks to my betas, eekfrenzy and Rose—and thanks also to my reviewers.

Reviews are my only reward. I like them a lot.

_cjsl8ne_: Yep, Merry did remember that Strider used fire on the Nazgûl—you couldn't forget something like that! He remembered it all along…

_LadyDoroAnne_: I sure hope this isn't the **only** chapter you were waiting for!

I'd like to remind everyone that this story is not only fantasy-it is, in its way, historical fiction. For us, it's the year 2010-from Barbarella's point of view, it's early 2003.

**Chapter 21 Meanwhile, Back at the Palace**

Elric, Bergil, and I careened out of the tunnel and clattered up a little flight of stairs into the sunlight. The Courtyard of the White Tree was behind us and the Tower of Ecthelion loomed to the right. The King's House, a massive structure made of the usual white stone, was positioned immediately in front of the stairs. In days gone by, it used to be the Royal Palace, but since Anárion's Line had been defunct for at least a thousand years, it was being used for…nothing really useful, if I know my Gondorians. The Great Doors of the King's House were always supposed to be closed, but just then they were hanging ominously open.

A bad portent indeed, if you ask me—and by no means the only one.

As soon as we hit the stairs I knew that something awful was going on. The noise from the Pelennor had amped up and a lot of guardsmen were charging around pointing at the sky—at something that I couldn't see. These were the Tower Guard—the loonies guarding the White Tree, of course, were still standing as motionless as Beefeaters.

Just as we passed the fountain I heard an all-too-familiar whining shriek and looked up to see that the enemy was lobbing fiery missiles into the city. One missile arced through the air to hit a domed building a few levels below us, caving in its roof completely.

When he beheld this monstrous sight Bergil bleated in horror, but Elric, who'd seen this sort of thing before, elbowed him in the ribs and snorted scornfully, "Come on, it's not magic, it's just vesper fire."

Vesper fire or no, if the enemy was sending up rockets, I didn't want to be standing around outdoors. I quickly scanned to the left and the right and up—was anything incoming? No? Good. I tapped the two kids' shoulders and we sprinted across the grass to go through the open door into a dark space.

In hushed quiet, we tramped down a long gloomy corridor. I suppose to Elric this was just another strange place we'd come to in Mundberg, and he counted on me to explain it if necessary. I have no idea what Bergil was thinking as we invaded the House of the Kings of his forebears.

I saw torchlight in front of us. We soon reached a big hexagonal room with two great iron doors, shut and barred, that were bracketed by torches. Gold and silver statuary that were set into wall niches shone in the torchlight.

What I noticed first was the big pile of wood heaped in the middle of the mosaic floor, and the fact that two guards were lifting a motionless Faramir onto the pile. He was lying on a litter, and he looked dead to me, but I was willing to take Pippin's word for it that he wasn't.

Lord Denethor was there too. It wasn't easy to make out facial expression in the flickering torchlight, but I stared hard at Denethor as he observed his son's body hoisted to the center of the funeral pyre, and came to the conclusion that he wasn't actually bat-crazy, just grimly, obsessively determined.

As I watched I heard quiet footsteps behind me, and two more guards brushed past us bearing heavy jars that smelled of olive oil. Out of the corner of one eye, I saw that one of them was Beregond.

"Beregond?" I said softly. Bergil's father pretended not to hear me—he didn't even meet my eyes. Instead, he set down his jar in front of the Steward, then crossed over to the pyre and picked up a bundle of sticks.

Denethor finally had something to say. "So you're back. It took you long enough."

Somehow I had to stop Lord Denethor and help Faramir. Me, the handmaiden, versus Denethor, Ruling Steward of Gondor. Yeah, right.

I ventured uncertainly, "Ummm…Lord Denethor? Sir?"

Both of the boys faded into the shadows the moment I spoke. I cleared my throat and said in a slightly louder voice, "Lord Denethor!"

In the meantime, Denethor had picked up the jar and was matter-of-factly pouring oil on himself. Dragging his attention from this engrossing activity, he looked over at me and replied, "So, it is the foreign woman. This is no concern of yours. Begone."

"What are you doing? What's going on? Please explain it to me!" 'Keep him talking' sometimes works wonders. In this case it was the only weapon I had, so I was going to use it.

Sighing theatrically, Denethor said to me as if I were a little child, "I have seen more than I could possibly explain to you. It is better to die soon than late, for against the power in the east there can be no victory."

He had 'seen'? So I was right—Denethor did have a seeing stone and he was definitely under mind control. The Gondorians might not have picked up on what was going on, but I can assure you, anyone who'd ever watched _Star Wars_ would have recognized it in a twinkling.

The arguments that I'd been forming died in my throat. It was time to try feminine wiles.

"Surely, Lord Denethor, you would not choose fire? I have seen men burn. It is such an ugly death…and so undignified."

Taking a deep breath, I threw out my best baited hook. "I know of a much better way to die. A deep draught of syrup of poppy offers an endless sleep with no dreams."

If I could con Denethor into asking for narcotics in the Houses of Healing, I thought that I could get Narbeleth to slip him a sleeping potion.

Denethor seemed to consider this for a few moments, then shook his head. "That is no choice for my son and me. Our corpses shall not become carrion to be rended by the foe. But as for you, go and die in whatever way seems best to you."

I clasped my hands and looked pitiful. "The syrup of poppy is what I would choose, but the healers of Minas Tirith would never give a deadly poison to a foreigner like me. They would give it to you, though, for you are their ruler. Where is your chivalry? It would take such a little time to help me!"

For a moment Denethor wavered and I thought that I might have reached him. But instead he said sternly, "I have no time to waste on you, Barbarella. For a thousand years my forefathers and I served Gondor as Stewards of Anárion. I shall burn with my son like the pagan kings of old, second to none."

He reached out and pulled a burning torch from the wall. "Guards! Pour oil on the body of my son."

Fire and oil. That tore it—I had only seconds to act.

If Denethor was out of the picture, no Tower Guard would be crazy enough to immolate Faramir. And the fact is, I wasn't actually weaponless. I slid my right hand down my hip and began to pull my dagger out of the scabbard hidden by my elven cloak.

But before I could grab my dagger, Bergil shrieked from behind me, "Daddy! Daddy! You can't let him burn Faramir!"

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Beregond's head shoot up as if he'd just come out of a stupor. Hefting the bundle of sticks in his arms like a club, he slammed it over the head of the man who'd brought in the other jar of oil, then sprang at the guard nearest the pyre and started to wrestle with him.

This was our break! Interposing my body between Denethor and the funeral pyre, I yelled in Rohirric, "Take care of the wounded, Elric! You know what to do!"

Elric had been one of my stretcher-bearers at the Battle of Helm's Deep, so he knew exactly what I meant.

As he witnessed the fight right in front of him, Denethor's face was turning purple with rage. "Soldier! What are you doing? Stop that at once!"

I didn't dare turn my head to see what was happening, but I winced when the clumsy noises of scuffling were replaced by the clanging of steel on steel. Were these guards really willing to kill Beregond in order to murder Prince Faramir, the son of their Steward?

As Denethor's glaring eyes moved from the fighting guards to his son on the pyre, he saw what I was not able to see—the events going on behind me. "No! You will not take my son from me!" Holding a burning torch in his hands, he started to charge toward my kids.

Toward my kids! That wasn't going to happen on my watch. As Denethor ran by, I stuck out my foot in front of him and he tripped and fell headlong—right on top of the torch.

Now what was I going to do?

Just when I thought that things couldn't get weirder, Gandalf the Wizard galloped in on his white horse, with Pippin sitting right in front of him. The stallion halted sharply right in front of the funeral pyre and Gandalf quickly dismounted. He shouted in a ringing voice, "What madness is this?"

Pippin frenziedly leapt down and ran over to help my kids pull Faramir off the pyre.

In a quick jerking motion, Denethor rose up from the marble floor. His clothes were already beginning to burn as he shouted, "There is no hope!" Before anyone could answer him he screamed and ran down the corridor—on fire.

Gandalf didn't even move when the Steward ran by him, but I chased Denethor outside and pulled off my cloak in a futile attempt to smother the blaze. He was running a lot faster than I was—I'd barely passed the courtyard when he reached the easternmost point of the ship rock.

And then he leaped off!

Denethor instantly dropped out of sight to plummet down and smash on the ground right outside the Great Gate. It wasn't the first time I'd seen somebody jump from a high place to keep from burning alive. You've seen it too and you know what I mean. But this wasn't on television—it was right in front of my eyes.

I screamed and screamed and screamed and I couldn't seem to stop screaming. Finally Gandalf put his hand on my shoulder and I quivered to a halt.

"So passes Denethor, son of Ecthelion," Gandalf said solemnly. His face appeared mournful, but otherwise he was perfectly calm and collected.

"Why didn't you save Denethor, Gandalf? He ran right past you—you could have stopped him!"

Gandalf shook his head. "I could have saved his life, but his life no longer had meaning."

If this hadn't reminded me so much of the Twin Towers I wouldn't have been so angry. "Who are you to say that his life had no meaning? This isn't a story that somebody made up—this is reality, Gandalf."

I felt so alone. For the first time it occurred to me that the Wizard Gandalf was less of a human being than Gimli or Legolas. He cared about us mortals, yes—but did he see humans as comrades or as beloved pets? If I stayed there for one more minute I was afraid I'd say something that I would regret later, so I turned on my heel and stalked off to the edge of the shiprock that Denethor had jumped from.

I couldn't see everything from the top of the rock, but I could see enough. Sauron's army was still lobbing fiery missiles, and killer pterodactyls were swooping low to attack the city's defenders. Some Elf must have made his money shot, because one of those pterodactyls never pulled out of its power dive.

That must have been the suitable moment, because Éomer's Riders charged out of Harlond and Erkenbrand's Riders poured from the city to meet them. Between them, the two groups were bottling up Sauron's army.

For a few minutes the tide seemed to be turning, and then a line of gigantic beasts pushed through the Rammas Echor and fanned out into the Pelennor Fields. At first I thought they looked like Imperial Walkers but when they moved closer I saw that they were mastodons. Mastodons with archers in howdahs.

Giant mastodons? That wasn't fair!

Just when I thought things couldn't get worse, they got worse. From the waves of the Anduin a brilliant green fog bubbled up and gushed at tremendous speed through the Pelennor Fields and toward the city. Another one of Sauron's superweapons, no doubt. What it looked like to me was chlorine gas—and if it was, our Riders would be exterminated in minutes. Surely Gandalf would do some magic against a gas attack!

As I watched in terror, it turned out that it wasn't chlorine gas after all. When that mass of green hit the Wall of Minas Tirith it formed into a gelatinous wave that crested higher and higher. Wavelets were splashing up onto the higher levels. One emerald tentacle actually double-bounced on a high dome and shot up to the top of the shiprock where I was standing!

Of all the weirdnesses that I'd seen in Middle-earth, this was definitely the weirdest. I knew for sure that it wasn't poison gas when one glowing gobbet hovered right in front of me.

It looked like a luminescent, mummified corpse-warrior with a spear clutched in its bony hand. But mummy or not, that corpse-thing had eyes. Even as I was observing it, it was watching me right back. And then…

…it dove right into me.

When the corpse-thing hit, it felt like an arctic blast freezing my flesh. Incomprehensible chittering sounds buzzed at me from my back teeth—cacophonous, ineffably alien syllables that formed words of some kind—a monstrous, unspeakable message straight out of the grave.

Luckily for me, I blacked out before I could translate it.


	22. Return of the Phantom Ranger

**Usual disclaimers and thanks**: Nothing is mine, etc., etc.

Thanks to my betas, eekfrenzy and Rose—and thanks also to my reviewers.

Reviews are my only reward. I like them a lot.

This may be my last post until the New Year—I'll be on the road touristing until then.

_cjsl8ne_: In the book Sauron was definitely influencing Denethor through his palantir and I'm going with that. Gandalf must have realized that once Denethor was dead, all that remained in the Steward's line was his own little pupil Faramir. Not that he'd be influenced by that, of course…

_LadyDoroAnne_: Maybe Gandalf is like Dumbledore—he's so very old that all mortals look like babies to him. He did seem to respect Lord Elrond and Treebeard, anyway.

_S_: Would I stop just when it's getting interesting? Well, I'd intended to stop at the end of _Misfit in Middle-earth_, but I repented. One reason that the year Barbarella came from is important is that it means 9/11 is still very recent and painful for her.

**Chapter 22 Return of the Phantom Ranger**

The next time I opened my eyes, I discovered that I was lying in a real bed, with no canopy for a change. A pleasant-faced woman that I didn't recognize was bending over me. Whoever she was, she had a big gap between her front teeth, brown hair knotted up in a bun, and an unbleached cotton apron over her black dress.

To my right I saw a half-open casement window; to my left there was a screen with a pattern of flowering trees. I was in a little sunlit room with white plastered walls. The only thing I could see through the window was another building twenty feet away.

The first thing that people are supposed to ask when they wake up in a strange place is, "Where am I?" My first question was, "Is it over yet?" The only thing that could possibly matter was whether the War was over. I struggled to get up, but the woman in the apron slid more pillows under my head, smoothed the linen sheets, and began to talk. And talk…

"Well, young lady, you've been lying abed in the Houses of Healing for nearly a day and a night. You've missed such a lot! The King of Gondor has returned after a thousand years! Just when the enemy had broken through the Great Gate of Minas Tirith, the Gate that had never been broken, he came to us with an Elf and a Dwarf at his side, and he won the day with a legion of the dead!"

She took a hasty breath and resumed her monologue. "Ghosts! Can you believe it! The scholars say they were the shades of the Men Under the Mountain who were cursed long ago for betraying their oath to Isildur. That is how we know that Lord Aragorn is the rightful King. Only the Heir of Isildur could have summoned them. And what a marvel it is, that he returned just when we needed him most! What's more-"

"Let me take over now, Ioreth," a familiar cranky voice interrupted. "Barbarella is Lord Húrin's guest, so I am the one who should care for her."

"Well, if you think so," Ioreth twittered. "I have many other things to do, I can tell you that…"

"Please don't," Narbeleth said sharply. Of course it was Narbeleth!

She waited until Ioreth bustled away, then sat down on a wicker stool beside my bed. Narbeleth was wearing one of those aprons too, and she looked utterly exhausted. She must have been working with the wounded all the time that I'd been lolling around in bed. I felt kind of bad that I'd shoehorned her into volunteering, but hey, it was her city after all.

Narbeleth's explanation was much shorter. "Fear not, the battle is won. Princess Éowyn and her halfling esquire are being cared for here in the Houses of Healing. I have heard neither good nor ill about the men or the Elf in your party."

"Thank you," I said, and I meant it with all my heart.

But she hadn't finished yet. "Prince Faramir is being treated by the healers. The two boys that were with you have suffered no hurt. You already know the fate of Lord Denethor." An indecipherable expression rose in Narbeleth's grey eyes. "My son slew two of his comrades to protect Prince Faramir. Beregond has been imprisoned in the Tower and he will be tried for murder by a military council."

I wasn't sure what she wanted me to say, so for once I spoke without any calculation. "If your son hadn't acted when he did, Faramir would be dead now. It takes bravery to stand against your enemies, but far more bravery to stand against your comrades. Beregond is a hero and somehow we will save him."

That must have been the right thing to say, because Narbeleth untensed a little. "You are the only person that I know who would say such a thing, but somehow I believe you. Moreover, you were right about the healers—they needed all the help they could get. It is well that I was here, for many wounded men of Rohan were brought to the Houses of Healing and the healers cannot speak your language."

Everything was piling up at once! We had Riders who needed a translator, but first things first. I quickly asked, "Where are Éowyn and Merry?"

"Master Merry was put in Prince Faramir's room down the hall. Princess Éowyn is sleeping in this very room on the other side of the screen."

I started to get up, but Narbeleth grabbed my wrist before I could swing my bare feet onto the wooden floor. In a low voice she told me, "You need to know the truth about her condition first."

Nobody ever says that when the truth is good.

"Princess Éowyn was gravely wounded when she killed the Nazgûl. Her burns and bruises will soon heal, but she and her esquire were touched by the Black Shadow of Sauron. According to the healers, this causes terrible despair and unceasing nightmares. You must do whatever you can to lighten her spirits, for the touch of the Black Shadow can cause death."

"You'd better believe I will!" Rising to my feet, I promised myself that I'd lick this thing or die trying.

In the executive section of our room, Éowyn was sleeping restlessly. Her eyes were moving in uneasy REM sleep, her face was nearly as pale as her white silk gown nightgown, and her arms and neck were covered with bandages. When she moaned softly I went over to her bed and shook her awake.

Dazedly, Éowyn opened her eyes. "Barbarella? Is that you? I dreamed I was with my uncle in the Pelennor Fields. He had fallen in battle and I had to fight the Witch-King to save him."

"It was just a dream—you're safe now."

"But I feel so cold…" she murmured, almost too faintly to hear.

I put Éowyn's hands between my own and squeezed them tight. They were freezing. "You did it, Éowyn—you won. You slew the Witch-King of Angmar."

"….and Merry….?"

"Right down the hall in Faramir's room. We saved Faramir too, by the way."

A brief smile slipped over Éowyn's wan face. "Then you too have won your victory. Hammer into anvil, true heart."

"It will take a while, but you're going to be all right. I promise you, Éowyn—you're going to be all right." After that I was too choked up to speak, but I held onto Éowyn until she fell asleep and then I went back to talk to Narbeleth, who was dozing sitting straight up on the stool.

I know what it's like to be that exhausted, and I was sorry to shake her awake, but she was my go-to gal in Minas Tirith and there were things that I needed if I was going to fulfill my promise.

As Narbeleth winked the sleep from her eyes, I held up a pair of fingers. "Two things. First, Éowyn, Merry, and Faramir all need someone to sit with them and wake them up whenever they have a bad dream. I know they need their rest, but nightmares aren't restful. Second, I need somebody to go to Lampwright's Street with a message."

"A room has been set aside on the floor below for the use of the helpers. Get dressed and we will go there to find a messenger." Narbeleth shoved a package at me that had been hidden underneath my elven cloak on the bedside table. When I unwrapped it, I discovered that my amber silk robe had been cleaned while I was sleeping.

The nightgown I was wearing was made of the same fabric as Narbeleth's apron, so maybe Minas Tirith didn't go in for flimsy lingerie. I eyed the silk robe speculatively. "I guess this isn't really a negligee?"

The last vestiges of sleep fell from Narbeleth's eyes. "It is a riding dress! How could you possibly believe that it could be nightwear? I gave it to you to wear it in public!"

"Ummm… because I'd been mouthing off at you and you were mad at me?" I answered weakly.

"Girls these days!" she snorted, and helped me fasten the innumerable buttons.

When we got down to the room set aside for the helpers, I saw that just like many break rooms I'd seen back on Earth, this one had been furnished in a hurry with old, mismatched furniture. A bald man who turned out to be Mornacollo was snoring softly on a broken-down leather couch, three old ladies were clutching teacups and sitting around a bedside cabinet-table, and a bunch of kids squatted on worn-out mats as they ate bread and cheese.

Narbeleth made a sign to one of the kids and he trotted over to us. He was even younger than Bergil! I vaguely remembered him as a boy that I'd met at the Old Guesthouse. He was the one with hair like a dandelion.

"Fingedil, this is Barbarella," Narbeleth said sternly. "She needs someone to take an important message to Lampwright's Street. Can you do this for her?"

"Yes'm. I'm off duty now so I can go anytime you want."

"I need you to find Zubair the Herbalist," I said to him. "I don't know where he is now, but before the battle he was in the Old Brassworks. Tell him that I need all the kingsfoil he can find, wait for it yourself, and then bring it to me immediately. Now, have you got all that?"

Fingedil nodded his fluffy head and repeated my message verbatim.

"Okay then, scoot."

Fingedil scooted.

"Kingsfoil?" Narbeleth said skeptically. "Isn't that a weed?"

Well, for all I knew it was a weed, but it had worked in the movie and that's all I cared about. "Many valuable drugs are made from weeds. The Elves make one of their best potions out of bread mold."

Narbeleth had no answer for that. She told me she'd find someone soon to sit with Éowyn and the others, and I went right back to sit by Éowyn's side until that someone showed up—a young woman with coiled hairbraids and the professional air of a nurse.

I wanted to stay there myself until Éowyn got better—but I couldn't. Many wounded Riders of Rohan were being treated in the Houses of Healing, and they needed me to translate for them.

The Houses of Healing are set up like a mini-campus. Five buildings of varying heights are separated by a well-kept stretch of green grass. Just then the lawn was occupied with a number of pavilions that the Healers were using to house overflow patients. It wasn't a bad idea, but I had to wonder how often in the past they'd been forced to turn that lawn into an extra wardroom.

After it was all over, I estimated that more than a hundred Rohirrim were being treated in the first floor wards or the overflow pavilions. Almost none of our Riders knew any Westron, and except for Narbeleth and Bergil, nobody working in the Houses of Healing knew much Rohirric. That made me indispensable.

When I walked into the main ward, I was shocked to learn that the Riders had been expecting me. Moving from wounded man to wounded man, I discovered that most of them remembered my makeshift hospital at Helm's Deep. At a time when they were weak and helpless, these men of Rohan wanted somebody they trusted to tell them what the healers were doing and to say things like:

"No, you can't get out of bed. You've lost too much blood and you'll fall over."

Or: "Drink this potion. It will take away the pain and let you sleep."

And even: "Your leg is crushed past saving. It has to come off or it will fester and poison you."

When I told Gamling about his leg I started to cry, and the poor guy wound up trying to comfort me.

In the wards time went by quickly but painfully. When Fingedil tracked me down it was nearly dark. By then I'd gone through three aprons and all of my tears.

Fingedil was lugging a polished wood box that was about the size of a milk crate. "I found Zubair in the barracks. That is where the refugees from Harlond have been moved. He sent you all the kingsfoil he had, and a letter too."

He gingerly set the box onto the stone floor of the corridor and offered me a little paper scroll.

Paper? The Gondorians had paper? That seemed so… uncharacteristically modern.

Zubair's letter read: "I will be fascinated to learn how you mean to use the athelas. It is sovereign against cluster headaches, but I assume that you want it for something else. From the boys at the Old Guest House I hear you are working both day and night, so I am sending you something that you should find heartening."

I opened the box lid and saw the little samovar he'd used to brew coffee at the Old Brassworks. Two oilcloth bags had been tucked around it. The first bag was filled with wilted leaves that smelled like eucalyptus. In the second, he'd packed well over a pound of ground kahve.

Heartening? I'd call it 'euphoric.'

"Thank you, this will really help," I told Fingedil. "It's late—you should get some sleep. Have the healers given beds to the helpers?"

"No, but Bergil says his Gramma will find something for us," he said with conviction.

"Maybe she'll find something for you to eat too."

My young messenger's face brightened and he hurried off in search of her. Had I been overpromising? No. This was Narbeleth I was talking about. If three dry crackers were left in the building, she'd find them for the kids.

Next I needed to find Pippin. He'd actually seen Aragorn dose up Frodo, so he could tell me what I was supposed to do with the kingsfoil. I had a pretty good idea about where I was going to find him, too.

Just as Narbeleth had said, the room they'd given to Faramir and Merry was right down the hall from Éowyn's room. When I peeked inside, I was unsurprised to find Pippin Took curled up next to Merry's bed. He'd fallen asleep in a straightbacked chair with his chin propped on a big red leatherbound book that he was clutching to his chest.

Merry's eyes were shut and he was breathing regularly. That meant he was getting some dreamless sleep, and I couldn't disturb that. Morning would be soon enough.

I spent the night dozing in a chair next to Éowyn's bed. Every now and then she'd cry out, and I would shake her shoulder and say firmly, "No, your brother wasn't eaten by the orcs," or "The Deeping Wall still holds," or even "Don't worry—I didn't get crisped by Saruman after all."

Throughout the night Éowyn woke up several times, but by dawn both of us had managed to get a little sleep.

When I heard Ioreth's shrill voice outside our room, I jerked awake. "Look, it is Lord Aragorn! What a marvel! The King Returned walks among us!"

It was about bloody time!

I raced out into the corridor in hopes of nabbing him. It was Aragorn, all right, although somebody had definitely spiffed him up a bit. He was wearing a shiny-new suede tunic and tight black leggings and one of the elven cloaks that never seen to get dirty. His old boots were just about dead, though.

"Lord Aragorn! Lord Aragorn!" I cried out hastily. "Princess Éowyn needs your help. She's—"

"That is what I have come for," he interrupted. "But first I must aid Prince Faramir, for his injuries and the fell influence of the Black Breath have brought him close to death."

I waved my oilcloth bag over my head. "I've got athelas!"

Aragorn opened up the bag and sniffed deeply. "You did well to obtain this, Barbarella. The leaves are a little old, but they will serve. Where did you get them? The Master Herbalist told me that athelas is not grown in the gardens of the Houses of Healing."

"From a guy named Zubair that I met in the markets."

As we talked, we were taking long strides to Faramir's room. The strides were a little longer for him than they were for me, of course, but I was doing my best to keep up.

"I have heard many interesting tales about you," Aragorn said neutrally.

'Interesting tales?' That could mean many things, some of which I wasn't eager to discuss. Tripping Denethor. Sassing Gandalf. Hoping to forestall the worst, I said with a deadpan expression, "One of your ghosts slimed me."

Aragorn missed a step or two, but he regained his composure fast. "I am sorry to hear it. Much to my regret, the Dead Men of the Mountain have very poor manners. Were you astounded?"

Was I astounded? Trust the Phantom Ranger to slip that in!

I smiled demurely. "I must admit, nobody ever told me that free-roaming full-torso apparitions were so freezing cold."

I think that's the point at which Aragorn gave up trying to get my goat. We'd reached the doorway by then, and I was about to go in, but he gently held me back. "Prince Faramir would not wish a young woman to see him in his pain and his weakness."

The Rohirrim had accepted it, but they knew me. His objection made sense, so I agreed and headed back the way I'd come. "Okay, I'll go hold the fort with Éowyn. But please, please hurry! She needs you too."

I can't say how long it took Aragorn to get to Éowyn's room; I can only say that it seemed to take forever. I was scared. I'd hoped that the bright morning sunlight would revive Éowyn a bit, but no, she was sinking even further into a wintry silence. I picked up her wrist and tried to take her pulse, but the fact is, I hadn't yet learned what a normal pulse rate is. I decided to fire up the ol' samovar because hey, every frontier doctor on TV always wants hot water.

When Aragorn finally appeared, he took over my chair by Éowyn's bedside and crushed a few of the wilted athelas leaves between his fingers. The smell of not-quite-eucalyptus quickly permeated the entire room. Noticing the steam from my samovar, he sprinkled the leaves onto a cloth and poured boiling water onto them. After the cloth cooled for a while, he applied it to Éowyn's forehead, then leaned so close to her face that his long hair brushed her cheek.

In a voice so compelling that it could have woken the dead—and who knows, perhaps it had!—he called out to her, "Éowyn Wraithbane, your deeds set you among the queens of great renown. One who would take a weapon to a Nazgûl must be sterner than steel, and so you are! Walk no more in the shadows, but awake."

I couldn't bear to be silent any longer. "Éowyn, Éowyn, it's me, your Barbarella! Wake up, please!"

Aragorn and I stared expectantly at Éowyn's pale face. Her eyelids fluttered and her lips moved a little, but I couldn't make out what she was saying.

"Speak up!" I urged her. "Speak up, Éowyn. Don't be afraid, the Witch-King is dead."

"But I was afraid," we heard her murmur. "I was not steel, not stern—I was terrified."

Aragorn laid his strong warrior's hand onto her quivering wrist. "When I encountered the Ringwraiths at Weathertop, I too felt fear. But if I had not faced these horrors, my friends would have been killed and my mission would have failed. So I fought with all my strength—and so did you! Truly this is the very core of courage."

Éowyn opened her blue eyes wide and looked around the room as if she'd never seen it before. "I am strangely weary," she said in a hoarse whisper. "But where is Merry? Does he yet live?"

"He lives," Aragorn replied, "and he is strengthening even as you are. Great gladness it is to see you both waken to health and hope!"

Éowyn's head shifted on the pillow and she took a deep, labored breath. "There is always hope…."


	23. Promises, Promises

**Usual disclaimers and thanks**: Nothing is mine, etc., etc.

Thanks to my betas, eekfrenzy and Rose—and thanks also to my reviewers.

Reviews are my only reward. I like them a lot.

I got caught in the big snowstorm and wound up in New York City instead of where I'd intended to go—but still had fun.

_midorimouse7_: Éomer has not been forgotten—although his path will not cross Barbarella's very often. Hacking at orcs from a horse is not her strong suit.

_Lily of the Shadow:_ This 'altering history' business is harder than you might think—because after all, we don't want the bad guys to win. Or do I?

**Chapter 23 Promises, Promises**

Aragorn left soon after that, but I still wasn't able to devote all my time to Éowyn. Our Riders needed me too! Eventually I worked out a schedule—two hours with the Rohirrim and one with my Princess. Keeping track of time in the Houses of Healing is surprisingly easy because they've got a bell tower that chimes every half hour.

Once I'd completed a couple of rounds on the lawn I decided to peek in on the handmaiden's alcove of Faramir's suite. This time Merry was awake. Pippin's red leather book was on the chair by his bed, and an odd-shaped piece of metal had been placed on his bedstand. Somebody had retrieved the green lantern. That poor thing had been crushed and brutalized until it was just a lump of corroded metal with a few shards of glass sticking out at crazy angles. I didn't think it would ever shine again.

"Where's Pippin?" I asked.

Merry sat up in bed and stretched. "He went out to get us something for dinner."

"What, they haven't gotten around to feeding you?"

"Only supper," he said with a grimace.

I shifted the red book onto the bedstand, then sat down onto the chair so I could study Merry's face. It looked a little pinkish. Merry hadn't been wounded like Faramir and he hadn't been burned as badly as Éowyn, but he'd still been touched by the Witch-King's aura. I could see that in his haunted eyes.

"How are you feeling?"

"Better, I think. At least our fight with the Witch-King is over. Anything would be better than having to look forward to that! Aragorn used the same stuff on me that he used on Frodo and it seemed to help."

"I'm sorry that I pulled you into all this, Merry."

"Don't be sorry, I chose to come along."

I glanced over at the battered lantern and said slowly, "Merry—you planned to use fire on the Witch-King from the time that you bought that thing, didn't you?"

He shook his head. "No—from the very beginning."

Then Merry took a long, ragged breath and whispered, "Barbarella, there is something that I have to tell you. The Witch-King…he spoke to me."

I waited a decent amount of time for him to complete the sentence he'd left hanging, then prompted, "So what did he say?"

Merry shuddered. "He said 'Baggins'."

Yeah, the Nazgûl did say that quite a lot in the first movie, didn't they?

"If the Witch-King thought that Frodo was in Minas Tirith, then maybe his Master thinks so too. That's good, isn't it?"

"What do you mean?" Merry demanded shakily.

"Ever heard of the old shell game?"

Merry stared at me. "You mean, 'which hobbit has the Ring?' Even Pippin isn't silly enough to fall for that!"

I bared my teeth in a wicked grin. "No, but maybe Sauron is."

Merry and I grew up in different countries, we spoke different languages, we were even members of different species—but we both knew the name of the same hustle. Scam-artists know no borders.

I was standing up to go back to Éowyn when somebody called out from behind the fancy gold-embroidered room divider. "Who's there? Is there someone else in the room?"

That had to be Faramir, so I went over to see whether he was okay. As you might expect, the semi-private room they'd given to the Steward's son was the biggest I'd seen all day. Merry's roommate was lying in bed with his eyes half-closed and his head propped up on a big stack of pillows. There was a silver bowl filled with water and athelas leaves on the low table next to him.

Prince Faramir seemed much improved, but his eyelids were blue-veined and his face was nearly as white as Éowyn's nightgown. Of course it was—he'd been wounded in battle, struck down by the Black Shadow, then hauled onto and off a funeral pyre!

"I'm Barbarella, Princess Éowyn's Counselor," I told him. "Can I help you, Prince Faramir?"

Faramir gave me a look of startled recognition. "You were there…at the King's House. Weren't you?"

"Ummm…yes," I answered reluctantly.

"Can you tell me what happened?"

"I don't think I'm the best person to—"

"No one else will speak to me of this," he said with an air of dull resignation.

I could certainly see why they wouldn't.

I didn't want to speak of it either, but I must have felt some sort of need to confess, because the first thing that popped out of my mouth was, "I was partially responsible for your father's death. If I hadn't tripped him, he might not have fallen onto that torch."

Faramir waved his hand to brush off my confession. "I could not move, but I was neither blind nor deaf. My father had ordered a funeral pyre to be built and he had drenched himself with oil. I think that he would have found a way. Please, Barbarella—I know what I saw and I know what I heard, but I do not understand why it happened! Can you tell me why?"

That was a brave question. Most of the people I've known would have chosen to cling to comforting fantasy instead of facing the hard truth. Sitting down on the filigreed metal chair next to his bed, I tried to figure out what to say. The whole thing was a mystery to Prince Faramir—but I've always liked mysteries and I had a theory. It included some pretty big leaps of logic, but it was the only plausible answer.

"Let me tell you what I think. Your father was using a seeing stone, a palantír, to seek out military intelligence. I believe this because he knew things that he couldn't have found out any other way. Sauron must have used the stone to attack his mind and manipulate his thoughts to make him believe that Gondor was doomed. When Lord Denethor spoke to me, it was clear that he had absolutely no hope of victory."

This was strong stuff. I didn't try to hold Faramir's hand or anything, but I waited to find out whether he wanted to hear any more. Faramir closed his eyes for a while, but eventually opened them. "Go on."

"Cremation isn't the normal custom in Gondor, is it?"

Faramir shook his head. "It is not. For a thousand years my forebears have been entombed in the Hallows."

"Okay, then. Your father wasn't stupid—whatever he did, he did for a reason. He believed that he was facing Gondor's certain defeat, so I think he was trying to save your bodies from desecration at the claws of the orcs. For what it's worth, there at the end Sauron may not have let him see that you were still alive."

I wasn't sure about that last statement, but the guy had burned to death! Give him the benefit of the doubt.

Overcome by emotion, Faramir put the heels of his hands against his eyes and panted hard. I was beginning to harangue myself, "Now you've done it, you stupid blabbermouth," when he said thickly, "That….is good beyond all I dared hope. If my father was not mad, if there was an honorable reason for what he did—then perhaps the line of Stewards will not end sunk in shame."

It was a positive reaction, but a morbid way of putting it—very morbid indeed. In a situation like this, I was sure that Doctor Aragorn would prescribe positive, happy thoughts.

Although maybe not in those exact words.

I said to Faramir as bracingly as I could, "Why should the line end at all? So long as you are alive, it continues. There is still hope for victory."

Faramir cocked his head to one side and said knowingly, "There is still hope—but victory is out of our hands now."

What did he mean? Had Pippin said something to Faramir he shouldn't have? Not that it mattered—Faramir wouldn't leave that room any time soon, so he couldn't pass on what he knew even if he wanted to.

I decided to get in the last word. "Perhaps, but the hands that it was put into are trustworthy."

By Princess Éowyn's command, I spent the rest of the day with the wounded Riders of Rohan.

"Shoo! Go to the men who need you," she ordered firmly. "Long before I met you, I well knew how to lie abed. If I need help I will call for Merry—if Prince Faramir needs help, Merry can summon me."

As I've said before, you don't disobey your Princess, so I gave up and went back to the pavilions. There was still translation to be done, and a lot of scutwork too—passing out lunch trays, disposing of old bandages and other medical trash, changing bedclothes and so on.

A little after sunset I foraged myself a sandwich and sat down to eat in a jasmine-bordered garden next to the main entrance of the Houses of Healing. We'd barely entered spring in Rohan, but in the warm Mediterranean climate of Minas Tirith the spring flowers were in full bloom: foxglove and chamomile and iris and poppy and valerian. The odor of jasmine was delicious, my cheese sandwich, not so much.

I'd just choked down the last bite of stale cheese when the double doors opened wide and—of all people!—Beregond stepped out. His pale blond hair was shimmering in the last rays of the setting sun—and so was his steel armor. He was wearing full Gondorian battlegear: platemail from shoulder to knee, chainmail on his arms and legs. If he weren't going off to fight he wouldn't be kitted out like that. Where was he going?

Beregond's helmet was cradled in the crook of his left arm, so I could see his worried expression as he scanned the lawn and its pavilions. He had a lot to be worried about, that was for sure. His face still had the bashful wide-eyed look I remembered from the day I'd met him—but it wasn't so innocent anymore. When he caught sight of me in the midst of the flowers, his face uncreased. "Barbarella! I was looking for you."

I jumped up and ran to where he was standing. I didn't see any bruises on him, so at least the Tower Guard hadn't roughed him up. "Have you spoken with your mother? She's worried sick about you—she said that you were in prison."

"I have and I was." Beregond looked worried again. "Why don't we find a place to sit down? I wish to ask for a favor."

A favor from me? It was Princess Éowyn who had the political clout. Nevertheless, whatever Beregond asked for, I would do it. I owed him bigtime—he'd really saved the day!

I took him to the bench where I'd been eating my sandwich and we both sat down. Sitting down in platemail is something of a production—Beregond had to lower himself slowly and carefully arrange his thigh-guards so that he wouldn't snag the wickerwork of the bench. Leaning back as far as he could, Beregond placed his hands on his mailed knees.

It suddenly occurred to me that with his pale hair, dark eyebrows and pointy chin, Beregond reminded me just a little of Prince Théodred. I quickly chucked that thought down the memory hole as he met my eyes and began to speak.

"Tomorrow I shall march to the Black Gate with the Army of the West."

"What is this Black Gate, anyway? And where is it?" I'm sure any woman in Minas Tirith would have known where it was without asking, but duh—foreigner.

Beregond stared out into the distance. "It is the rampart that guards the entrance into Mordor. No man of Gondor has dared to go there for many centuries. I have no idea what our war leaders hope to achieve when we arrive there, but I do know that we will have to fight against great odds."

By the time Beregond finished speaking I knew how scared he was—and I also knew that his honor would not let him say so. Once again I wished that I'd read the book. But if I had, would it have made me feel better—or worse?

Beregond shook his head and seemingly changed the subject. "My son has become very fond of you."

I wasn't sure what this was leading into, but I nodded in agreement. "I like him too—Bergil's a sharp kid."

When I spoke Bergil's name, Beregond's eyes lit up. His boy was the only part of his life that wasn't going wrong.

After some throat-clearing and a few false starts, Beregond said to me, "If I do not return, my mother will take care of my son, but Bergil needs a strong friend to stand with him. Some of the people in Minas Tirith may shun him because of what I did."

The Gondorians—they live and they die by the letter of the law.

"You didn't even have to ask—I see Bergil as one of my kids," I said vehemently. "If I have to slap sense into every single person in the city, I will!"

I may have sounded a bit too angry there, because Beregond seemed somewhat unnerved. Then again, maybe he didn't fancy a strange foreign woman annexing his son as a sidekick.

"On the other hand," I switched gears smoothly, "why don't you save us all trouble and just come back? Do your duty and fight the enemy, but don't try to be a hero."

Beregond scuffed circles in the dirt with the toe of his shiny new boot. "It might be better if I do not come back. I slew my own comrades, Barbarella, and I will have to pay with my life for that crime. You cannot know what it is like to face judgement for the crime of murder."

Funny he should say that.

I wasn't going to let Beregond talk himself into dying. "Look, Beregond, I want you to know something. Princess Éowyn ordered me to 'help Faramir' when Pippin told us what was going on in the King's House. So I went, and you know what I found. A funeral pyre was stacked and ready to go, Lord Denethor refused to listen to reason, and there was a lighted torch in his hand."

When I thought about it, I had to stop and shiver. This was the first time that I'd allowed myself to remember that chain of events. I collected myself and said what I had to say: "I had only one option left."

Flipping open the dagger-sheath that was still on my hip, I pulled out Toothpick. I'd hoped that I would never have to use that dagger again, and because of Beregond, I hadn't needed to.

"When you started to fight, I was just about to use this. Faramir wasn't the only person that you saved—you saved me too."

Beregond shook his head sorrowfully. "Yes, for you would have been killed. You are no match for a soldier of the Tower Guard."

He still didn't get it. "I was thinking of Denethor."

Poor law-abiding Beregond—it hadn't even occurred to him that I would actually attack the Ruling Steward of Gondor. His mouth fell open in shock. "What! Oh—you—no, no—you wouldn't—you would!"

Beregond's so cute when he's flustered.

"You know how it is. Something has to be done, you know you're the only one who'll do it, your blood's boiling and your heart's on fire, and so whatever it is, you do it. Only afterward does it occur to you that you've bought yourself a heap of trouble."

"I know." To my surprise, Beregond's left hand shifted from his knee and squeezed mine in commiseration.

Squeezed my hand—not my knee!

It was time to clinch the deal, so I reiterated, "You've got to come back! If you don't, I'm going to be really mad at you."

"I would not want to risk that." There was a trace of amusement in Beregond's voice. He was getting his spirit back.

And maybe there was something more that I could do to help him. "Is it customary in Minas Tirith to give a token to a soldier who's going off to battle?"

"In some circumstances, yes," Beregond said gravely.

Without stopping to think, I slapped my dagger and its sheath into his hands. "Take this in remembrance of what we've said today. I never want to use it again—use it for me in honor."

"I thought you would give me a flower." Beregond examined the dagger more closely and said in surprise, "This is a noble blade that you give me! How did you get it?"

It was a long story, so I gave him the Cliff's Notes version: "Princess Éowyn gave it to me. Toothpick used to belong to Prince Théodred of Rohan, and I can assure you that he would have been very pleased to know that you would use his dagger to kill orcs."

Beregond accepted my gift without question—although I'm sure that he must have had speculations. After buckling the dagger sheath onto his sword-belt, he reached up to pluck a sprig of jasmine from a nearby bush. He threaded the yellow flowers into my hair and commented softly, "A flower really is customary."

He levered himself to his feet as carefully as he'd sat down and said, "I must report now to my company, but it is good to know that you will be here to watch over my son. Battle on, Barbarella."

As Beregond headed off in the direction of the tunnel, I was more scared than I wanted to admit.

Prince Théodred's death had nearly broken my heart. How could I bear it if Beregond was killed too?

When it got a little darker, some old men in livery set up tiki torches on the central lawn. The night had brought a kind of somber quiet and a full moon's clear beams were punching through the dirty smog from Mordor. At least for a little while, the battle was over and the city was serene.

I was sitting on the bench and trying to work up a plan—a plan for what, I couldn't say—when I noticed that Aragorn was weaving toward me past the supply pallets and the pavilions. That night the Phantom Ranger was easy enough to spot. The mail on his arms glittered in the moonlight and his black velvet tunic with the silver tree-and-stars insignia was as eye-catching as a superhero's costume.

From personal experience I knew that his gorgeous costume would stay pretty for about thirteen seconds after the battle started.

When he reached my bench, Aragorn held out his hand. "Walk with me."

So I got up from the bench and I walked with him across the lawn and up the northeast stairs of the Houses of Healing to the observation deck on top. For a while we both gazed in silence at the comfortingly-familiar moon, but eventually Aragorn said, "Tomorrow I shall lead the Army of the West to the Black Gate of Mordor. Thousands of Sauron's soldiers still held in reserve will quit the plateau that surrounds Mount Doom and swarm out to fight us."

There was nothing I could say to an announcement like that.

Aragorn looked down at me and said very seriously, "Bëor told me that you know of the Nine who went out from Rivendell, and of the nature of our Quest. Do you understand why I mean to take such a grossly outnumbered army to challenge Sauron's mighty host?"

I didn't have to think for very long. "Frodo needs a clear shot at that mountain. You're the decoy ducks."

Unsurprised, Aragorn nodded in agreement. "We risk much to gain all. But you must also understand that even if the Free Peoples are victorious, I may still perish. If that should happen, I want the nobles of Gondor to know that I would have Prince Faramir raised in his father's place to be the Ruling Steward."

Before I could reply, he offered me a square parchment envelope sealed with black wax. "If you are sure that I have been slain, give this to Lord Húrin when the battle is over. He knows my seal."

"ME? You want ME to do this?"

"Who better than the woman who carried the King of Rohan's records on the flight to Helm's Deep?"

Numbly, I accepted Aragorn's envelope and the responsibility that came with it. It was a real honor—but the kind of honor that's also a political hot potato. "Any last message for Arwen?"

Aragorn shook his head and smiled slightly. "She knows."

And that was that. The Army of the West would march out of the city and I would wave the traditional handkerchief at the soldiers. Win, lose, or draw, I was out of it. From here on, it was up to Aragorn and Frodo.

So I thought.


	24. Go For Broke

**Usual disclaimers and thanks**: Nothing is mine, etc., etc.

Thanks to my betas, eekfrenzy and Rose—and thanks also to my reviewers.

Reviews are my only reward. I like them a lot. (And I got so many great reviews this time!)

There are elements of both book and the movie in this story. I don't for a minute think book-Aragorn would have given Barbarella that letter—but movie-Aragorn seems more human—more aware of his own limitations. Of course, I still don't think he would have done it if Bëor hadn't told him about how she claimed to be neutral regarding the succession.

And nope—no 'Barbarella at the Black Gate'! Her task will be something more up her alley.

**Chapter 24: Go for Broke**

Princess Éowyn felt a bit better the next morning—well enough to sit up in bed and nag at me nonstop to spring her from the Houses of Healing. Eventually we agreed that if I sneaked her out to bid farewell to the Riders leaving for war, that she would behave herself and return to her room as soon as she got tired.

I helped Éowyn to get dressed and ready to sneak down to the Courtyard of the Great Gate in less than an hour. Am I good or what? I'd told her that it would be better if she rode my horse again—Nifredil is as gentle as most of the healers I'd met in Minas Tirith. Elric held the reins and kept pace alongside so he could catch Éowyn in case she fainted, and I was on foot, as usual.

When we got there, the courtyard was a disaster area. How had the enemy broken through? What had happened while I wasn't looking?

The Great Gate was crumpled and twisted as if struck by some titanic monster—or by several sticks of dynamite. The courtyard's paving stones were smeared with terrible stains, and everywhere you walked you had to step around scattered rubble and glass. I noticed sadly that anything green and growing had been ripped up by the roots, including our poor grape arbor.

Many soldiers had already arrived. Several companies of Gondorian soldiers in heavy armor waited patiently in rank for the move-out signal, and as we watched, mounted Rohirrim and Elves sifted into the Gate area from the side streets.

Lord Aragorn, of course, was riding in the vanguard. His armor was Gondorian plate and his mount was a warhorse of Gondor. Our multi-talented Ranger seemed just as familiar with Gondorian gear as he was with everything else.

On his left Éomer was on Firefoot and Gandalf rode the white stallion Shadowfax on his right. When the three turned to survey the company, I saw that Pippin was perched in front of Gandalf on his saddle. Why had the Wizard decided to drag a hobbit off to the Black Gate? He'd better take super care of Pippin, that's all I could say. And as for Éomer…

His expression was the funniest thing I'd seen for days! When Éomer realized that his sister had ridden up on horseback just as the Rohirrim were readying for war, he went chalk white and he looked like he was about to start gibbering. Éowyn just smiled sweetly and waved farewell. It was Éomer's own silly fault that he was upset—he should have known that his sister would never ride to battle in a long silk dress.

The more that I saw of the Combined Army, the more I realized that powerful though it was, it was far outmatched by the massive hordes of Mordor. I began to understand what Aragorn meant by 'grossly outnumbered' and I also understood why Beregond didn't think he'd be coming back.

When the Army of the West met the vast forces of Mordor they'd be cut to pieces in minutes. Frodo had to come through—he just had to!

We watched the warriors leave, and when about half of the Rohirrim had passed through the Great Gate, Éowyn started to droop. I gave Elric the high sign and he tugged on Nifredil's reins. I was about to follow when Éowyn shook her head. "No, Barbarella, stay and bid the rest of the men farewell. They should see at least one cheerful face before they go off to fight."

She was spot-on about the 'one cheerful face' part. The few inhabitants of the White City that had dared to creep out of their hidey-holes were as sad-faced and lugubrious as if they'd just buried poor old Gramma. The least that Minas Tirith could have given their soldiers was a fanfare of trumpets.

So until the very last soldier marched through that Gate, I waved and I whistled and I yelled "Good luck!" and I basically made a complete fool of myself. But I made a couple of those men smile.

I should have brought a kazoo.

I never did see Beregond, but in those steel helmets, Gondorian soldiers are almost as identical as Elves.

After this I would have gone back to the Houses of Healing, except that I happened to notice Serindë near the stairs to the Wall. She'd probably stood in the courtyard like me watching the infantry march out.

To my great relief, Serindë seemed uninjured. That had been no sure thing—she'd been shooting at killer pterodactyls from the top of the Wall. I hurried to her side and asked, "How come you're letting them attack Mordor without you?"

I guess that was a pretty tactless thing to say. Serindë gave me a hard stare and grabbed my left wrist. "Come with me, Barbarella! Come up to the Wall and view the land of the Lidless Eye."

I followed with a shrug. I'd seen Mordor before, but Serindë had something on her mind—and she wasn't an easy person to say 'no' to. Climbing the stairs was difficult, because the Wall had been hit hard by the bombardment. The masonry was cracked and pieces of rock stuck out to twist your ankle just where you least expected them. Once or twice Serindë had to boost me over a smashed-out, empty step.

Merely reaching the top of the Wall didn't satisfy Serindë—she kept on walking. We were directly over the area that had been the enemy's primary target, so we had to clamber around broken wall sections, shattered catapult balls, once a puddle of drying blood. Well, I had to clamber—Serindë sort of glided. It was scary, treacherous going, I can tell you that—and it was four stories off the ground.

Eventually Serindë and I stepped onto a stone ledge that jutted toward the northeast. By this time the front line of our soldiers had reached the bridge over the Anduin. I hoped that it wouldn't be a bridge too far.

There was a tall silver dome behind us to the west and it was afternoon, so we were in shadow. For a while Serindë watched the procession in silence. Then she said to me, "Do not look at the men, Barbarella. Look at Mordor. What do you see?"

"My eyes aren't as good as yours. I'm only human—I can barely see anything." I wasn't sure what Serindë wanted me to look at. On the other side of the Anduin I saw a jagged mountain range—not as tall as the White Mountains, but tall enough to block the view of anything else. Except for Mount Doom, of course.

"Orodruin—you must be able to see Orodruin. What does Mount Doom look like to you?"

The volcano was belching smoke and dribbling red-hot lava, but that was nothing new. "Like a pillar of smoke by day, a pillar of fire by ni—" When I realized what I was saying, I wanted to scrub out my mouth with soap. Those were the most blasphemous words I'd ever spoken.

Serindë, of course, didn't know what I was quoting. "What I see is the smoldering forge of the evil of Sauron. I see cactus land inhabited by naught but orcs and slaves, and cursed for six thousand years by the black rule of the Abominable One. Above the plains of ash, Gorgoroth towers high, a mighty plateau surrounding the mountain of fire."

One by one, Serindë chipped out her words like hard flint. "To fulfill their Quest, the halflings must walk Sauron's Road. It begins in Barad-dûr and crosses lifeless Gorgoroth until it finally winds its track to the top of great Orodruin itself. Every step they take, they will face unspeakable dangers."

If she was trying to scare me, she was doing a good job of it. "Why are you telling me all this?"

"You have foreknowledge of what is supposed to happen. I do not care how you gained it, but I want to know what is to come."

Did I ever say that Théoden King looked fierce? Did I ever say that Aragorn was impressive? The two of them were nothing but little boys compared to Serindë, a terrible Elf-maiden who had no soft girly thoughts left. Or any soft guy thoughts, either. All that remained was a fearsome sense of purpose. Just at that moment I was standing in the cross-hairs of that purpose.

There was no way that I could say 'no' to her.

"Well, ummm…. we're supposed to win. Right now Frodo and Sam are hiking off to Mount Doom as fast as they can go—along with Gollum, the weird guy Bilbo got the Ring from."

Perhaps I should have read _The Hobbit_ too.

Serindë nodded almost imperceptibly. "Your foretelling matches what I already know. Prince Faramir told Gandalf that he met the halflings in Ithilien, and he said that their guide was 'a gangrel creature, skulking and ill-favored.' That sounds like Gollum as he was described to me."

"When did you hear about Gollum?"

"For a time he was imprisoned in Mirkwood, but he managed somehow to escape the dungeons of King Thranduil. But this is of no consequence now."

"Yeah, right. Well, the way I understand it, Gollum will leap at Frodo when they reach the top of Mount Doom and try to grab the Ring." I had a hazy impression that Frodo would fall to temptation and try to put on the Ring, but I really wasn't sure whether I remembered that from _Lord of the Rings_ or from any of half a dozen derivative fantasy movies.

"Gollum will regain the Ring, but as he jumps around in triumph he'll fall over the lip of the volcano and he and the Ring will both be consumed by the lava. Once the Ring is destroyed, Sauron will be destroyed too."

When she heard my scrappy recollections, Serindë stood motionless as a block of ice—except for her eyes, and they narrowed to ominous slits. "Is THAT to be the end of the greatest Quest of the Third Age—a daring scheme conceived by the wise Lord Elrond of Rivendell and the Wizard Mithrandir and carried out by a fellowship of noble heroes? It will finally be won by…MERE CHANCE?"

"I didn't write the story," I said defensively.

"Does this sound like a good strategy to you?" Serindë's voice rose and her s's were starting to hiss. You might call it the Elvish equivalent of a freak-out.

"In the absence of a better plan, yes."

Serindë turned her back on me and stared fixedly at something in the depths of Mordor. Whatever it was, I don't think she was seeing it with her eyes. After awhile I began to be afraid that she was having some sort of brainstorm.

Meanwhile, an actual thunderstorm was brewing in the East, assuming that those dark clouds were water vapor and not more ash. I scanned the nearby area, but I didn't see any soldiers close enough to call for assistance. I was stuck on that ledge until Serindë helped me to get back.

Finally Serindë turned away from Mordor and said in a voice of steel, "I do have a better plan. From the moment we met, daughter of earth, you have wanted to see elven magic. Now is the time for that magic. Once I beheld the Elf-Lord Glorfindel focus all of his strength and spirit into an hour of tremendous power. He did this to slay a Balrog and save refugees who were fleeing Gondolin. This great choice may be made but once by any High Elf. Nevertheless, if the halflings can be shielded only briefly from Sauron's shadow, this may tip the balance and win the day. But I cannot shield Frodo unless I can see him. You must bring me the palantír that belonged to Lord Denethor."

Her pitch had sounded pretty good—right up until the last bit. I jerked away from her and shrieked, "ARE YOU CRAZY? When Saruman used the stone he got taken over. When Denethor used the stone he got crisped. When Pippin used the stone he nearly got taken over **and** crisped! What makes **you** immune?"

I almost pitched myself over the side of the ledge, but Serindë grabbed my arm and held it tight. "Surely you know that I would never do anything to give advantage to Sauron. I do not intend to gaze into the seeing stone at all. That will be your task."

In spite of my terror, Serindë's vice-like grip held me fast. "Master Pippin survived because Mithrandir pulled him away in time. I shall watch you constantly when you look into the stone. If Sauron's Eye lights upon you for an instant I will snatch you away. But I think it will not, for the Eye of the Enemy is now focused on other things."

"How come I'm the one who gets to do all this?" I whined.

"Because if you do not do this, no one will."

Shoot. That's pretty much what I'd said to Beregond.

Serindë might be right. Could I really trust everything to a book written by a dead Englishman? The deus ex machina of Gollum had bothered me too. It's one thing to hope that a hero will succeed in a great quest, but to hope that somebody else will fail at just the right moment?

I almost asked Serindë, 'Are you sure about this?' but scotched the idea. Serindë was sure about everything.

What I really wanted to say was, "This is too weird even for me," but after my boast to Aragorn, how could I? It was just one of those typical 'Luke Skywalker' scenarios.

Meh.

"Okay, I'll do it. But if I can get the palantír for you, will you tell me where my necklace came from—and how I wound up in Middle-earth?"

"I can do that," Serindë said promptly. "But first you must first bring me the stone."

After our little chat, Serindë managed to get me off the wall without me breaking my neck. I went back to Éowyn's room in the Houses of Healing. Éowyn had pulled off her dress and was sleeping on top of the bedcovers in nothing but her chemise. For a moment I was mad at Elric for leaving her alone, but I guess I shouldn't have expected him to play lady's maid.

Éowyn's cheeks did have a bit of color, so our little excursion probably hadn't caused a relapse. Reassured, I sat down beside her bed and watched her sleep. Her chest was rising and falling strongly and evenly, which was probably a good sign.

While I watched her breathe I started to work up a 'To Do' list in my head. (Since I had no paper or pencil, mental notes were my only option.) What I finalized on was:

1. Find Lord Denethor's seeing stone.

2. Figure out how to break into the place where he kept it.

3. Wrap it up safely so I wouldn't get zapped.

4. Give the stone to Serindë.

5. Don't get caught!

My highest priority was #5. If you're put on trial even once for a capital offense, you never want to repeat the experience.


	25. Opening Gambit

**Usual disclaimers and thanks**: Nothing is mine, etc., etc.

Thanks to my betas, eekfrenzy and Rose—and thanks also to my reviewers.

Reviews are my only reward. I like them a lot.

_cjsl8ne_: Alas, no Black Gate for Barbarella! But at this point, helping Frodo succeed is the most important thing that anyone—including Aragorn!—can do. Especially since Barbarella actually knows that if the Ring is destroyed, it will win the War.

_midorimouse7_: As Barbarella might put it, 'Why do these things keep happening to me?' She's going to get to do her part—although she won't wind up taking over the Ring Quest.

**Chapter 25 Opening Gambit**

When Narbeleth peeked in on us, my stomach had been rumbling for over an hour.

"Could you watch Éowyn for awhile?" I begged. It was well past the hour for second breakfast, and I hadn't even had my first! "I want to check out the break room and see if it's got any food for the helpers."

"I have just come from a meeting there and I fear that none is left," she said, dashing my hopes. Searching her apron pockets, she added, "but I still have one bean-paste bun. You can have that if you like."

Yes, I liked. This latest Gondorian delicacy wasn't as tasty as a Chinese dim sum bun, but it was bigger, and at the time that mattered more to me. "What was the meeting about?"

"We talked about many things that still must be done. You should have been there, Barbarella. You always have something to say. Our greatest problem is that most women in the city cannot offer their time to help the wounded—they must expend every hour trying to find food for their families," Narbeleth said bitterly. "The White City has been under siege for months and the outlying towns have sent us nothing."

I had a quick flashback to the groaning board that Denethor had been pigging out from. "I bet there's still food in the Steward's larder. Someone should ask Prince Faramir for the keys to the pantry."

Narbeleth gave me a wintry smile. "What a good idea. Why don't you do that, Barbarella?"

Someday, somehow, I will learn to keep my big mouth shut.

Well, there's no time like the present. Before I had time to chicken out on the project, I said, "You're right, I will," and headed out the door. Narbeleth seemed surprised that I actually had the guts to do it.

I figured that I'd drop by to say hi to Merry, then scope out Prince Faramir's mood before I asked him for a favor. When I got to Prince Faramir's suite, I found that the door was open and that he and Merry were at a side table playing some sort of pit-and-pebble game.

Someone had put Merry into a striped tan robe that was way too big for him and, being a hobbit, he was barefoot. Prince Faramir was wearing a crisp blue linen tunic and black trousers, and his boots were polished to a spit-shine. He was probably trying for the 'fit and ready for duty, sir!' look—and he did seem a lot fitter than he'd been the previous day.

Unlike most White City residents, Faramir looks more Irish than Mediterranean, with curly auburn hair, a fair complexion, and a snub nose. When he glanced up at me, I saw that his sharp eyes were intelligent and analytic. He reminded me of some of the smarter postdocs that I've known.

"Please come in, Barbarella," he said courteously. "Merry and I would like to hear about what you saw when you and Princess Éowyn sneaked out of the Houses of Healing and went to the Courtyard of the Gate."

Faramir's words were wry but it didn't sound like he was criticizing us for our actions. On a scale of 1 to 10, I gave his mood a 5.

There was an extra chair next to the table, and Merry's Minas Tirith outfit, now clean and mended, was draped over its back. I scooped up his clothes so I could sit down, but when I shifted them to his bed I heard something jingling. There was a heavy lump in one of his pants pockets that felt like…

"Hey, Merry, are these Lord Húrin's keys?"

Merry craned his neck around to look. "Yes, they are. Could you take them back to him? Prince Faramir and I promised the healers that we wouldn't leave here until they gave us permission."

Could I take the keys? Lord Húrin's **skeleton** keys? You'd better believe I could! Silently crossing one item off my To Do List, I slipped the heavy key ring into my apron pocket and sat down in the empty chair.

Shoving the alabaster game board to one side, Faramir put his elbows on the table and rested his chin on the heel of one hand. "Princess Éowyn was not injured, I hope, by her latest adventure? I have read old tales that say the Black Shadow can linger long."

"It tired her a little, but she's resting now," I said defensively. I'd been agonizing over that myself. "We walked her down slow and easy on Nifredil—you remember my horse Nifredil, Merry—she waved farewell to the Riders and came right back and went to bed."

"I wish I could have gone with you." Faramir shook his head regretfully, then switched to another topic. "Did you notice the size of the host that Lord Aragorn is leading out?"

"Ummm…." I had to stop and calculate. "How many men are there in a standard Gondorian infantry company?"

"When it is fully manned? Perhaps six hundred."

"I'd guess five thousand. That's counting maybe a thousand of our Riders and a couple of hundred Elves."

"I fear that five thousand is not…" Faramir's train of thought suddenly derailed as the rest of my words registered. "Elves? There were Elves marching to war from Minas Tirith? The Elves have not fought as our allies since the Battle of the Last Alliance."

"Oh, yes!" Merry nodded his own curly head. "It's the company of archers that Lady Galadriel of Lothlórien sent to Helm's Deep. One of those archers rode with us to Minas Tirith—"

I didn't want Faramir, that smart guy, to hear too much about Serindë. "Prince Faramir, I actually came here to request a favor of you."

Faramir shrugged helplessly. "What is it that you would have of me? There is little that I can offer you, for I am obliged to tarry here, a prisoner of the healers."

"Food supplies are running out all through the City," I answered. "I want your permission to distribute provisions from the Steward's stores."

"But that is my father's-" As Faramir stopped in mid-sentence, an exultant spark lit up his eyes. "I am glad that you ask this of me, Barbarella. No matter what my father would have chosen and no matter what the future may bring, that is my pantry now. I shall grant you authority to take every last seed and crumb to feed the people of Minas Tirith."

Pulling something that looked like a Palm Pilot from the placket of his tunic, Faramir pecked at it with a stylus, then pressed it with his ring. "Show this to the captain of the Tower Guard, and what may be more important, to Master Sakalthor, who rules my father's kitchen."

When he handed the metal object over to me, I realized that I was holding a little bronze tray filled with a soft wax. He'd written me a note of authorization and sealed it with his signet ring.

So that's what they used instead of Post-It notes!

I thanked Faramir, said goodbye to them both, then left the room. I'd get to that the first thing in the morning, I promised myself. I still had a lot to do—but at least I'd crossed off one item on my To Do list.

Next I went to the volunteers' break room to see if I could find Bergil. He wasn't there, but I discovered that someone had set up a big slateboard for messages. I wrote on the slateboard, "BOYS NEEDED FOR AN IMPORTANT PROJECT. MEET ME HERE AT BREAKFAST-TIME. BARBARELLA."

After that I swung by the pavilions and tried to convince our wounded men to eat the supper they were being served. It was Cream of Wheat, so it was a hard sell. I wound up eating a bowlful myself, and was hungry enough to appreciate it.

On the way back into the Houses of Healing, I ran into a spindly minstrel who was plucking his lute and singing a mournful, minor-key ditty to my patients. "Louder and funnier!" I snapped, and kept on going.

When I finally got back to Princess Éowyn she was wide awake, sitting up in bed, and poring through a fat leatherbound book that covered her whole lap. I collapsed into the chair by her bedside and sighed pitifully, "What a day I've had!"

She smiled at me and closed the book. "Tell me about it."

The next morning I found myself lying in bed and staring at the tiles on the ceiling. They had a black-and-silver leaf pattern, and not one leaf was alike.

Do you want to know something funny? It wasn't the Dark Lord Sauron that terrified me. What really scared me was the thought of getting caught red-handed by the Tower Guards of Minas Tirith—a city that was very quick with a funeral pyre.

What had I been thinking of when I agreed to steal one of Gondor's priceless artifacts and use it to help Serindë fight the Big Bad? It was crazy. It was dangerous. Why, why, why had I volunteered?

Because somebody had to do something.

Given the choice—and I **had** been given it—I would rather bet the farm on Serindë rather than on Tolkien. She was sneaky and arrogant but she was smart, and she believed there was at least a chance that we could make a difference.

Could I actually nerve myself up to do this? As soon as I asked the question, I knew the answer.

_You can do anything, sweetie._

While I was growing up my mother had told me that over and over. And Mom would never lie to me.

I threw off my covers, slipped into the clean chemise that some wonderful volunteer had left on my bedside table, and put on the silk riding dress that I'd hung up to air out the night before.

When I peeked in and saw that Éowyn was still asleep, I tiptoed away before I could wake her up.

I was Barbarella, Heir of Naomi—and I had a mission to complete.

Breakfast was being served in the break room—if you were willing to settle for unsweetened tea and more Cream of Wheat. I grimaced and wished that I'd thought to scrounge a few packets of sugar from Zubair. Now there was a merchant who needed to start a franchise after the War was over!

As I grimly finished my bowl of fodder, I saw Bergil and Elric shepherding a few other boys into the room and pointing at me. Elric was rumpled and scowling—but then I'd scowl too if I could understand less than half of what the people around me were saying.

Bergil, bless his heart, was young enough to feel energetic in the morning. And as I'd said to Beregond, he was sharp. "I saw your message, Barbarella, so I thought I'd try to gather some boys for your project. These are the only ones that I could find. Everybody else is down at the docks emptying the wharves."

All told, I counted six boys—and Elric was probably the oldest of the group. I'd hoped for more musclepower, but I'd take whatever I could get. "That's all right, we'll contrive somehow. Another thing, Bergil—you've lived in this city all your life. Do you have any idea where Lord Denethor kept his study? It must have been in the White Tower someplace, but where?"

Bergil's eyes were wide and puzzled. A question like this would be a tough nut to crack for a kid who had barely started school. "I am sorry, Barbarella, but I do not know. Perhaps we should ask a Tower Guard-?"

"That's okay," I said hastily. "Just ask around among your friends and we'll ask these kids too. Now tell me their names and I'll explain the project to everybody."

Bergil sketched out introductions, starting with the boy who'd taken my message to Zubair. "Findegil is a page at the Hall of Records." Next were two grey-eyed lads who looked like brothers. "Elostir and Eradan are the sons of Captain Engrin of the Second Company of the Citadel. He left today with the Combined Army. Ragnor works in the kitchen at the Old Guesthouse." Ragnor was a sturdy little boy but no more than eight.

Apparently child labor was considered okay in the White City. Luckily for me, because I was going to put these kids to work.

I said cheerfully, "Hi kids, I'm Barbarella. Elric and I rode here from Rohan with Princess Éowyn. Prince Faramir wants to give all the food supplies in the Steward's pantry to the people of Minas Tirith. We're going to help him do that by going to the White Tower and bringing all the food we can find to Bergil's Gramma so it can be properly distributed."

Why Narbeleth, you may ask? Who else did I know in that town who was up to the job?

Every one of the Gondorian boys was open-mouthed with awe. They were going to work on a project for Prince Faramir! Elostir or Eradan—I forget which—blurted out in shock, "Surely Prince Faramir, the son of our Steward, does not need the help of mere boys like us!"

Elric's curled lip needed no translation. He'd absorbed 'Barbarella rules' at the Battle of Helm's Deep. I said hastily, "In a time of war, we must all do what we can. And think of the tale you'll be able to tell to your father when he marches home."

It didn't take much of a pep talk to convince them, but it took us well over an hour to get started. Minas Tirith was still in chaos and nobody could tell us where to find equipment, so the kids and I had to scavenge all of our boxes, bags, and baskets.

I flashed my diplomatic medallion to get us past the tunnel guard and we transported all of these boxes, bags, and baskets up to the White Tower in little pushcarts. When we arrived at the main entrance I presented Faramir's tablet to the guard on duty, but he shook his head and ordered us to go around to the kitchen. The White Tower of Ecthelion has a servants' entrance—who knew?

After we lugged everything another couple of blocks around the perimeter of the White Tower, I wasn't able to find a guard to let us inside, so I kept banging at the kitchen door. It was eventually opened by an intimidating personage who wore a white cap and apron. This was Sakalthor, chief chef at the White Tower. He resembled Denethor in many ways, except that he was taller and thinner. Three dark-haired serving girls—also in white aprons—were peeking around him and giggling at us.

Sakalthor gave each of us a haughty stare. "Who—and what—are you?"

Call me a cynic, but I didn't really think that he would be willing to listen to a woman giving him orders. Wordlessly, I handed over Prince Faramir's tablet. Meanwhile, the three maids were twittering at us. They were White City girls through and through, and my red hair and foreign appearance must have looked alien to them. The snooty chef, however, would not allow himself to be confounded. As he said to us later, "I am from Pelargir. We've seen everything."

Sakalthor recognized the seal and acknowledged Prince Faramir's authority, so he had to obey Faramir's order—little though he must have wanted to let us rampage through his pantry.

The kitchen of the White Tower has four double ovens, a gigantic fireplace, rack after rack of fancy dinnerware made of glass or pewter or even gold, and a number of shelves of labeled earthenware jugs, including one whole shelf of jellies. What we were looking for was the main pantry, and it was down in the cellar at the bottom of a long, low-ceilinged flight of stairs.

I lit one of the kitchen tapers and went downstairs to find that even the Steward's cupboard was pretty bare. Denethor hadn't been as much of a greedhead as I'd thought. Most of the shelves were empty, but he did have a side of salted beef, six hams, and five flitches of smoked bacon. There were only two barrels of flour left but I found plenty of dried vegetables and four bags of turnips. I don't think anybody likes turnips but I'd take them anyway. This was heavy stuff—it would be hard to carry it upstairs.

Just as I was finishing my inventory, I heard a rusty creak and saw an expanding slice of sunlight on the far wall of the cellar. Sakalthor had opened the outside door to the cellar and all six boys were peering down at me from the ground level. There was even an outside ramp that led down to the pantry door—we wouldn't have to carry everything up the stairs in our arms.

While the kids were boxing everything up, I figured I'd try a little sortie into the Tower to see whether I could find out where Denethor's study was. But as soon as I stuck one foot into the corridor, a Tower Guard noticed my red hair and yellow dress and came over to greet me.

"May I help you, Barbarella?"

Infamous again! "I just wanted to look around a little."

"Wait here and I will summon a guard to show you the public areas. In this time of war, the Tower Guards have been ordered to allow no outsiders into the White Tower without escort."

Well, that was no help. Since I couldn't get further into the White Tower, I decided to walk a few steps outside the kitchen door and check out the greenhouse I'd spotted on the way in. The head chef had grudgingly divulged that the greenhouse supplied fresh fruits and vegetables to the Steward's table.

The structure was a lot like a greenhouse back home, except that its panes of glass were only four inches wide. It was about twenty feet by twelve and it was made from wooden slats. Wooden slats? What happened to the usual Gondorian stone? But this building, at least, was not locked and guarded, so I was able to walk right in.

As soon as I opened the door I smelled appleblossoms. A line of tiny trees had been planted where the slope of the roof was highest. Many of the fruit trees were in blossom—I had to stop and sniff—but there was an orange tree that had three oranges. On either side of the trees I saw flats of strawberries, rows of peavines, even hills of some sort of melon. Except for the strawberries nothing was ripe, so I didn't think it would be worthwhile to strip the place. I did pick the oranges, though—you never can tell.

After the greenhouse I went back to help with the food in the cellar—and grabbed a few other things on the spur of the moment that I thought I might need. In the end we had to ask Sakalthor for help—and containers—because you can't stick a ham or a side of beef into a basket.

Pushing the fully-loaded carts, it took us nearly an hour to wobble across the Courtyard of the Tree, down the tunnel to the sixth level, and into the kitchen of the Houses of Healing, but it was worth it to see Narbeleth's face when we made our triumphant entry. She was shocked right down to her socks!

Looking up from the latest cauldron of Cream of Wheat, she stammered, "I did not believe that you would dare to ask the Prince for his father's foodstores."

Heh! She didn't know me very well, did she?

As Bergil meticulously described the contents of every last sack to his Gramma, I went off to hunt up Ioreth. She was in the Houses of Healing's stillroom, a pharmacy-cum-spice shop. The Healers of Rohan aren't the only ones who like herbs.

When the silence-challenged healer saw me, she immediately started to talk. "Oh, it is Barbarella! You are the one who gave Lord Aragorn the athelas! I want to hear where you learned about it, for it is not an herb esteemed by most healers of Minas Tirith. But I remembered the old folk saying, 'Come athelas! Life to the dying in the King's hand lying' and so I said to our herbmaster. He thought me foolish at the time but now he knows—"

I finally managed to break into her flow of conversation, and said desperately, "Prince Faramir told me to go to the White Tower and bring out the Steward's foodstores for the people of Minas Tirith. Do you know very much about the White Tower? It's such a wonderful building!"

After that I just stood back and let her rip. But although Ioreth had a hundred stories, she couldn't tell me anything useful. She didn't even know where the Steward's study was. I was sure that Lord Denethor had kept the palantír in the White Tower—it's the only place that made sense. But where?

Eventually I gave up and returned to our wounded Riders. I have to admit that, herb for herb, the healers of Minas Tirith are superior to the healers in Rohan. The only empty beds that I found were the ones that had held men who'd been sent back to duty.


	26. In Gandalf's Steps

**Usual disclaimers and thanks**: Nothing is mine, etc., etc.

Thanks to my betas, eekfrenzy and Rose—and thanks also to my reviewers.

Reviews are my only reward. I like them a lot.

I'm so excited! After years of writer's block, my beta eekfrenzy (she has some LOTR stories up on this site) is posting another story. And this time around, I get to be the beta. Her story _Dead Man's Razor_ is very unusual and very good—it's a Sweeney Todd/Pirates of the Caribbean crossover in which Sweeney runs up against the Flying Dutchman. It's on my favorites list—please check it out if either movie interests you at all.

_cjsl8ne: _Cream of Wheat is made of semolina, which—according to Wikipedia—is 'the middlings of the wheat.' After a hard winter and months of near-siege, Minas Tirith is running out of flour.

_Sammy Holzbein_: Well, yeah, what Barbarella intends to do is illegal. Never mind the politics—if she decided to swipe Zubair's samovar that would be stealing, and it's stealing to take Lord Denethor's seeing stone, too. But, it's for the greater good.

_S_: Thanks for mentioning the story glitzes. My actual phrase was 'we transported all of these boxes, bags, and baskets up to the White Tower in little pushcarts' and the scary thing is, when I looked back at my original Word document, it was correct. I blame Sauron…

**Chapter 26 In Gandalf's Steps**

The next day I was at my wits' end. Grilling Ioreth for information had been my last good idea.

Maybe it was time to try the Hall of Records. Hey, I was a college student—I'm supposed to be good at library research.

The Great Hall of Records in Minas Tirith is constructed of the same ice-white granite as the other public buildings of the seventh level. It was tall, stark, and majestic—from the outside. Once I stepped past the engraved-metal double doors I found myself in a faded reception area where most of the wall tapestries, rugs, and upholstered chairs looked—well, a bit shabby. A boy who must have been a library page—he wore the same livery as Fingedil—peered over the massive oak circulation desk and asked me why I was there.

Showing him my diplomatic medallion, I told him that I wanted to do some research. He craned his arm over to the desk to ring a silver bell, and after awhile a little old lady librarian dressed head to toe in rusty black tottered out from between two tapestries and queried me about the nature of my studies.

Of course I couldn't say that I wanted to steal Lord Denethor's palantír, so I told her that I wanted some information about the construction of the White Tower. Oh yes, she said, that archive is on the second floor—and off we went.

You wouldn't believe what I found there. No, you really wouldn't believe it. Until that day I had never fully appreciated Melvil Dewey and the Dewey Decimal Classification System. The Great Hall of Records has no card catalog. All of those books and scrolls aren't even arranged sequentially. The archivists simply put all of the books on a particular topic into one particular chamber or subchamber of the Hall. Next to the door of the chamber there's a shelf of bibliographic codexes that supposedly describe that collection.

When my librarian-guide explained this system to me, she must have seen my face pale, and she urged me to let her help with my research. Since I didn't dare let her know what I was up to, I smiled weakly and answered, "No, no, I love libraries." Several hours later she came up with a pot of tea and a plate of sweet biscuits, which by then was practically manna from heaven.

I spent the first hour flipping through the bibliographies for relevant titles, only to discover that I couldn't find most of them. It was hopeless. Many of the books had been reshelved higgledy-piggledy and others had been shelved by size. I seemed to recall from the _Fellowship_ movie that Gandalf had done research in this library, but then, he's immortal.

After my initial shock I resorted to the worst conceivable way to do library research—I examined the books shelf by shelf and stack by stack, skimming each one to see whether it might have something useful. It was a project that cried out for rubber gloves; most of the books were dusty or musty. Many had cobwebs.

Slowly I worked out the basic history of the White Tower. I found a few sketch-maps too, but nothing that detailed its features. It had been built in the King Period a thousand years before and rebuilt by the Ruling Steward Ecthelion I eight hundred years later. Belecthor II had ordered a major remodel of the upper floors a hundred and fifty years back, but I couldn't find a scope document or blueprints. And you guessed it, there wasn't a word about special rooms earmarked for the Steward.

By dusk I felt drained and grimy and defeated. When I dragged out through the reception area, my library lady was at the circulation desk. She asked me if I would be back soon and I mumbled, "I hope not."

After scuffling through the Courtyard of the Dead Tree, I plunked down on a stone bench near the tunnel. I wanted to sit by myself and brood. Of course the Fountain Guards were standing at attention over by the Tree, stock-still and silent, but essentially I was alone.

After awhile I began to get the creepy sensation that there were eyes staring at me. I assumed that I was just feeling guilty or paranoid, but nevertheless, I looked around-right and left, back and forth—to spot my watcher. I finally discovered that I should have been looking down. There was a little white cat crouched under the bench on the other side of the tunnel that was staring at me with bright yellow eyes.

Dangling my hand down to the ground, I twiddled my fingers. "Here Kitty Kitty Kitty…"

The cat insolently raised a back leg high and started to lick. "Here Christopher…"

When he finished his ablutions, Christopher sauntered lazily over and allowed me to scratch him under the chin. He had the triangular face of an Egyptian temple cat and an air of being very wise—a quality that I was sorely lacking in just then.

"I sure wish you could talk, cat. Maybe you could tell me where to find the stone that I'm looking for."

The next morning was a massive improvement.

I was drinking tea sweetened with honey in the break room when Bergil dragged a boy toward me that I didn't recognize. The new kid was much older than Bergil—maybe thirteen or fourteen. His brown hair was long and shaggy, his eyes were bright blue and his jacket looked like it was made of rough khaki. He probably looked a little like Aragorn as a teenager—if you can imagine that, which I frankly can't.

Bergil, I was relieved to see, did not seem overcome with worry about his father, now off at the front. He was a soldier's son in a military society. As for the upcoming trial—well, we'd have to see about that when Beregond came back.

Bergil announced excitedly, "This is Rhîw. He was helping the workers down at the wharves yesterday, but he's back today and he thinks he can answer your question."

I felt cold chills down my spine. It had been nothing but a foolish hope that one of the boys could tell me what I needed to know—but that hope had panned out. I smiled and said casually, "So, Rhîw, do you know where the Steward's study is?"

Rhîw (rhymes with whew!) shook his head vigorously up and down. "I think so! Near the summit of the White Tower there is a row of windows. Through one of those windows a strange, pale light sometimes flickers well after midnight when all other lights are dark. Whose light could that be save Lord Denethor's, who ruled over us by day and by night?"

That made sense. It did sound, though, like Denethor had been unclear on the concept of 'secret room.' "Can you show me which room it is?"

"I can point to it from outside, yes," Rhîw offered, "but we will not be allowed to go up there."

"No, of course not. But it would be nice to know where it is."

We walked up to the seventh level, I flashed my medallion, and the guard let us through. Standing at the top of the tunnel stairwell, Rhîw pointed up at a row of windows. "There! The window that faces the furthest east."

Let me tell you, the White Tower is tall! It's at least three hundred feet high, and it has no elevators. The window that he was pointing at was practically at the tippy-top, too, not that climbing all those stairs would be my biggest problem.

I cleared my throat. "Ummm… Bergil, could I ask for one more favor? I'd like you to find Serindë and tell he…him that I need to see him as soon as possible. I'll be somewhere in the Houses of Healing so he should have no trouble finding me."

"Sure!" Bergil turned to Rhîw and asked, "Ever see an Elf before?"

"Not up close."

"Come along and I'll show you!"

As the two boys raced off, chunks of my plan were beginning to fit together like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. I really thought I'd be able to do it. But first, I had to pick up some things in the Houses of Healing:

What I needed was Lord Húrin's skeleton keys, my elven cloak, a headscarf and apron, a wicker basket, a kitchen knife, candles, lampblack, a mirror, some bread, and an orange.

Finding all of these things took some time. I was most of the way through my list and was lugging my wicker basket out the north door of the Houses of Healing when Serindë appeared as noiselessly as the Phantom Ranger. She glanced into my basket, noticed that the elven cloak was hiding the rest of my swag and asked forthrightly, "Have you got it?"

"Not yet. But I know how to get it," I answered with equal bluntness. "The palantír was precious to Denethor. Since he wasn't clutching it when he went out to die, I figure he must have left it in his most secret sanctum."

Serindë nodded. "To judge by Saruman, yes."

"That sanctum is near the top of the White Tower. I'm going to get it tomorrow morning—but I'm going to need your help."

Serindë stiffened. "I am here under the authority of Lady Galadriel. I cannot fight Gondorian soldiers for you."

Definite case of overkill there. "I don't need that kind of help. I want you to wait with Bergil at the sixth level tunnel guard station so you can take the palantír when I bring it to you."

"How do you mean to reach the top of the Tower without authorization? The Tower Guards will stop you."

"I plan to be invisible."

Serindë frowned. "An elven cloak can conceal you from a casual eye but it will not make you invisible."

It could? Good to know!

"It's lucky that I didn't plan to use one, then." I was really enjoying my moment of 'elementary, my dear Watson.' "This isn't a job for magic—it's a job for Miss Marple. As her creator, Agatha Christie, once put it—nobody looks at a serving maid. When I climb those stairs I'll be a simple serving maid who's taking breakfast to the Tower Watch."

"Do you really think that will work?" Serindë asked incredulously. "Are mortal men so blind?"

I shrugged. "I'm betting my life on it."

Once I finished assembling my stuff, there was one more thing that I needed to do. I had to find Princess Éowyn and tell her that I wouldn't be visiting her in the foreseeable future.

She was out on her balcony—and she wasn't alone. Prince Faramir was standing at her side and they were watching the volcano together. She'd changed from hospital clothes into a spring-green gown with billowing silk sleeves. It looked absolutely wonderful on her.

When she saw me, Éowyn whispered something into Faramir's ear and he pressed her hand in farewell. Once he left I stepped up to where he'd been standing and peered nervously into Éowyn's face. There was no Black Shadow in her eyes—she was the same strong, wise, kind Princess that I've always known.

"So, how's Mordor doing?" I asked inanely.

"Much the same as before. Faramir says that by now the Army of the West will have passed into Henneth Annûn, the hidden refuge of the Rangers of Ithilien."

"Good, good." There was no point in batting around small talk. I'd have to spit out what I had to say and take my chances. "Look, we both know that I haven't been with you for a while. For the past couple of days I've been all over the place."

"Barbarella, you need not apologize. I told you that our men must come first. The Healers have been very kind to me." Éowyn stared down at me with her 'eagle look.' "You are not telling me what is in your heart. Something beside the War sorely troubles you. Will you not tell me of your worry so that we may share it?"

"Oh, Éowyn—I can't. I have to do something that could cause a lot of trouble. You're a Princess of Rohan—if I'm caught, you need to be able to disavow all knowledge of my actions."

"That is not the way of Rohan—and it is not my way either."

"I can't let you get involved in this." Before I could think better of it, I blurted out, "I couldn't tell you about Gríma either."

I wanted to kick myself—hard—when I realized what I'd just said. What was Éowyn supposed to think that I meant by that?

"I wasn't lying when I told you that I killed him in self defense," I nervously told her. "But there was a reason that I took the dagger to his room."

Scared, I waited to find out how Princess Éowyn would react to my confession. After a long silence, she said, "I knew you were not carrying that dagger merely to defend yourself. It is not in your character to think only of your own safety."

Éowyn rested her elbows against the balcony rail and stared out at Mordor. "It must be a very hard thing to foresee the future."

"Just because I can foresee the future doesn't mean that I believe everything that I see. Sometimes I figure I need to help the future along a little."


	27. Mission: Impossible

**Usual disclaimers and thanks**: Nothing is mine, etc., etc.

Thanks to my betas, eekfrenzy and Rose—and thanks also to my reviewers.

Reviews are my only reward. I like them a lot.

In case you haven't guessed, I am a librarian. For me, one of the most terrifying moments in the LOTR movies was that library scene in _Fellowship—_you know, the one where Gandalf was **drinking** and **smoking** in the midst of fragile, irreplaceable documents!

_Sammy Holzbein:_ I think that the biggest problem about 'falling into' Minas Tirith would not be the primitive and difficult surroundings, but the fact that in a time of war like that you could easily get hurt—or even killed. Barbarella is willing to face that possibility—but why should you? These people are her friends. For you this is only a movie.

_cjsl8ne_: Barbarella would never dare ask Éowyn to help out. If she did, it could implicate not only the Princess, but the whole kingdom of Rohan. Once again, Miss B will have to go it alone.

**Chapter 27 Mission: Impossible**

Of course you know that I survived my quest, because I'm the one who's writing all this down. But I'll bet you wonder how I managed to carry out the Great Palantír Caper! Well…

I got up early the next morning, when the pink in the east was volcano-fire. I dressed in a drab slate-blue gown and an eyecatching black surcoat that had silver piping on its sides and white leaves at the neckline. Hanging my diplomatic medallion over the surcoat, I grabbed up my basket of stuff and a candle to light my way, then headed off to the seventh level.

When I got to the tunnel, what the tunnel guard saw was Barbarella, Princess Éowyn's Counsellor. Half-awake in the near-dawn, he must have assumed that I wanted to forage for more food in the Steward's pantry, because he waved me through without asking questions.

I crossed the Courtyard, circumnavigated the White Tower and finally arrived at the kitchen door. Knock knock! Knock knock! Anybody there? No, I couldn't hear anything in the kitchen.

Next, I scooted down the ramp to the massive pantry door. Here, concealed from any passersby, I could use my skeleton keys more discreetly. The beat-up old lock was a piece of cake. When I climbed the stairs, I saw that the kitchen was dark and the oven was stone-cold—a sure sign that the place had been deserted for days.

Setting down my candle and basket, I stripped off my medallion and surcoat, pulled a nurse's apron and a headscarf out of the basket and replaced them with the folded surcoat and medallion. The headscarf would cover my red hair and the nurse's apron would easily pass as a kitchen maid's. I put on the scarf and apron, and used a little lampblack eyebrow pencil to complete the effect.

From that point on, I was a simple kitchen maid carrying a basket into the Tower on a domestic errand.

To reach the Grand Staircase I had to walk down several dimly-lit passageways and cross-corridors. It was so early that nobody ran into me until I'd nearly reached the Tower Hall staircase entrance.

"Halt! Who goes there?" a voice called out behind me.

I'd been expecting this—Minas Tirith always puts guards at access points. I stopped immediately and was confronted by a very young Tower Guard who had chestnut hair and a wispy mustache. "Yes, sir?" I asked innocently.

"What are you doing here this early in the morning?" He was trying to sound severe, but his heart wasn't in it. I was only a servant girl, after all.

'This early'—that was good. I wasn't unexpected, just a little ahead of schedule.

"I'm taking breakfast to the Watch on top of the Tower." I batted my eyes a little and added, "I was told Prince Faramir requested it."

At this point no Tower Guard would dare refuse Prince Faramir anything.

"What's your name, girl? I don't recognize you."

"I'm Fíriel, sir. I'm new here." Flattening my vowels like Ioreth does, I told him, "I'm from Lossarnach. I was told that I would work in the Steward's kitchen, but it is closed!"

"You picked a bad time to come to Minas Tirith, Fíriel. The Ruling Steward is dead and nobody is sure who will lead us now."

How about the Heir of Isildur, then? "But surely Prince Faramir will be the new Ruling Steward—"

"Never mind that," he said hastily. "So, you were ordered to take food to the Tower Watch?"

"Food—and a special treat from the Steward's greenhouse." Time for my secret weapon. No, not that. I held out one of Denethor's oranges. "There is an extra one—would you like it?"

An orange is no big deal, you're saying. Maybe not to you, but in a medieval society, citrus was an exotic delicacy. My young guard was tempted. "I have never tasted one of those before."

"Well, aren't you part of the Watch too? You can have this one!"

We wound up sharing the orange and flirting a bit. His name was Esgaril, he looked twenty-five and he actually was twenty-five—what a shock. His father was a shipwright, his mother and sister had been sent to safety in Dol Amroth. I had been here during the battle—had it scared me?

"I was scared by the ghosts," I confessed. "But they turned out to be a good thing."

By the time that I departed on my errand, we had shared a moment and the guilty secret of a pilfered orange.

From the ground I'd estimated that Denethor's window was twenty-five floors up, but after the twentieth I began to venture out a few steps at each floor to make sure. The climb wasn't as harrowing as I'd feared. My earlier swashbuckling must have developed my leg muscles.

21, 22, 23, 24…

As soon as I opened the staircase door, I knew that floor 25 was it. Directly opposite me there was a big window made from many beveled panes. But I was facing due north, so this wasn't the window I was looking for.

Listen to the left, listen to the right, no sound of footsteps. Lifting my candle high, I turned right to follow the circular corridor around the stairwell. I soon found the eastern room that Rhîw had told me about. Its door was big and black and its steel lock looked very sturdy.

Setting down my basket, I started work with Lord Húrin's keyring. As you'd expect in a heist caper, I had no luck until the next-to-last key—and even then I had to bump the key with the heel of my palm to make it work.

When I opened the black door, I stepped into—a room filled with bolts of cloth. Could this possibly be Denethor's secret sanctum?

To the left, a collection of old flags and pennants was wrapped up and stacked on shelves or hanging on the wall. I'd barged into the flag storage room of the White Tower! I nearly turned around and went back down the stairs. But no, I would not abandon my quest, no matter what.

Streaked and grimy though it was, there was a window, and in front of the window there was a high-backed chair and an old black desk. To the right I saw bookshelves, so I went over to check them out. For the most part, the books were about heraldry.

"All right, Mister Sherlock Holmes, it's my turn now to ferret out the secret that you didn't want anyone to find." I was Irene Adler, nemesis of the Great Detective, and as I set my candlestick holder on the black desk, I noticed that although the room was dusty, the surface of the desktop had been wiped clean.

Bingo.

At first I thought the desk drawers were too obvious, but then I recalled _The Purloined Letter_ and I checked anyway. Nope, empty. I returned to the bookshelves, stacked the books on the floor and rapped at the walls behind the shelves with my knife. They were solid stone. The ceiling—stone. The floor—stone mosaic. Hmmm….

Just before I began to pry up the mosaic with a kitchen knife I remembered my geometry. The Gondorians had built this room within the walls of a siege tower, so there was no space available for secret chambers in the ceiling or the floor, in the exterior wall or in the corridor wall. That left only the side walls. And one of those walls was covered with flags.

"This is almost too easy," I sneered, and started to pile flags away from the wall. I soon cleared a section of the last wall, which was made of knotty pine panels and looked to me like part of the big remodel.

I rapped on the wood, and it did sound hollow, but if it was up against drywall, I suppose it would have sounded hollow too. But it had to be hollow! "When you've eliminated the impossible…"

After rattling the panels for a while, I remembered my geometry again. A panel had to slide somewhere, and it couldn't slide into solid stone walls. The only ways it could go were down and up—into a closet on another floor, maybe. One or two broken fingernails later, I identified the pine knot that slid a panel upward.

Success!

What I found was only a cubby hole—three feet by five, tops. But there was a cushioned stool inside, and on that stool a crystal ball glimmered and roiled with a smoky light. I quickly sidestepped, then threw the elven cloak over the seeing stone so I wouldn't have to look into it—and so it couldn't look into me either. Wrapping up the palantír with my elven cloak, I hid it at the very bottom of my basket.

Mission accomplished, Fíriel of Lossarnach carried a seemingly-empty basket down the Tower stairs, out through the pantry, across the Courtyard, and into the tunnel. Would Serindë be waiting for me?

Of course she was. Serindë and Bergil were loitering inconspicuously within view of the end of the tunnel. I came up to the tunnel mouth and carefully remained in the shadows as I called out, "Master Elf! Master Elf! I have your cloak here!"

I was sure that Serindë wouldn't muff it, and she didn't. She stepped past the tunnel guard before he could react and took the palantír that I'd wrapped in her cloak. No mortal man was likely to search the possessions of an Elf, but for me, better safe than sorry.

"Go to Lord Húrin's mansion," I said out of the side of my mouth. "I'll meet you there at sundown."

Serindë left without a word. I intended to wait until shift change to make sure that no guard could connect any dots. Anyway, there were some legal questions that I wanted to research in the Halls of Record.

Turning on my heel, I walked back the way I'd come. As soon as I reached a dark area of the tunnel, I whipped off the nurse's apron and the headscarf, slipped on the surcoat, and dropped my medallion over my neck. Finally I scrubbed the lampblack off my eyebrows with the scarf.

Barbarella, Counsellor of Princess Éowyn, walked out of the tunnel and into the sunlight.


	28. Not All Those Who Wander Are Lost

**Usual disclaimers and thanks**: Nothing is mine, etc., etc.

Thanks to my betas, eekfrenzy and Rose—and thanks also to my reviewers.

Reviews are my only reward. I like them a lot.

For me, like much of the U.S., Friday is a Snow Day. So I'm posting a little early.

_Sammy Holzbein:_ For Barbarella this cloak and dagger stuff feels pretty dangerous, because she's doing it in Minas Tirith, where the government seems not only rigid and authoritarian, but also irrational. And next comes Mordor—although Barbarella is not going to be physically present. There's a twist for you!

_S:_ If Esgaril and the tower guards exchange notes, Fíriel could get into big trouble—except that she doesn't exist. Anyway, what they could they think she was up to—except maybe stealing? Minas Tirith has no written military secrets—no tactical plans, no new war inventions—and besides, none of their enemies looks anything like a Gondorian. There's fantasy for you!

The movie never mentions Denethor's palantír but I am forthrightly sticking it into my story, since if you read between the lines, it's obvious he has one. But Jackson doesn't show it, so Denethor had to hidden it somewhere.

_cjsl8ne:_ Yup, nobody but Denethor knows that the palantír exists so nobody will go looking for it. Barbarella does make the whole thing sound easy, but remember—this is first person, past tense. I don't think anybody likes to dwell on their own bumbling. On the other hand, she couldn't have bumbled very much or she would have been caught.

**Chapter 28 Not All Those Who Wander Are Lost**

Even days after the battle, the first level still looked grim, but I couldn't make out much of the devastation after sundown. When I finally picked my way through the rubble to Lord Húrin's mansion, the door was locked. Well, his skeleton keys would probably work on his own door too.

While I was fumbling with the keychain, the bolt rattled and the door swung open. Serindë the Elf looked down her nose at me from the darkness of the hall.

"How did you get inside?" I asked stupidly.

Serindë stepped to one side and motioned for me to enter. "The bombardment broke your bedroom window. Come, we have much to do."

We walked down the hall in the dark and into the sitting room. The only illumination in the room was the eerie flickering of Denethor's palantír. Finding the palantír waiting for me made me feel more mad than scared. "I gave you what you wanted, Serindë. Now it's my turn."

Serindë said stiffly, "What you brought to me is a tool. What I want is to destroy Sauron."

"We had a bargain!" Pulling my necklace over my head, I slapped it down by the palantír so hard that the table rocked. I was not going to be fobbed off again. "I want you to tell me what this necklace is and how it transported me here to Middle-earth. All that I know about it is that it was modelled after Arwen's Evenstar."

As Serindë stared down at my necklace, the palantír's glow was turning her eyes a brilliant green. "If that is all that you know, then you know nothing. It was not copied from the Evenstar, for the Northstar was fashioned first."

My necklace wasn't a knock-off? Flabbergasted, I plunked down on an upholstered chair and poked at the pendant with one finger.

Serindë shrugged infinitesimally. "Many, many years ago in Valinor, that silver star was gifted to Galadriel—or Altariel, as she was known then—by the great elven smith Fëanor. It may have saved her life when she crossed the Clashing Ice with the host of Fingolfin, for the virtue of the Northstar is that whoever bears it cannot wander astray."

So my 'Evenstar' actually belonged to Galadriel! Wasn't that hilarious? Aragorn had asked me at Helm's Deep whether I'd been sent by Galadriel and I had laughed—but he had been right. Was Galadriel some sort of secret mastermind who'd been pulling my strings all along? Most of the Rohirrim think that the 'Lady of the Wood' is creepy, and at that point, so did I.

From Serindë's data-dump I plucked another fact that seemed significant. "Is that why you put me in the lead on the day of the ashfall? To test whether my necklace was really the Northstar?"

Serindë nodded matter-of-factly. "I had seen the Northstar only once before, when Galadriel wore it at the wedding of her daughter, Princess Celebrían. It was the only way to be sure."

While I was brooding about what she'd told me, Serindë said, "Galadriel must have sent the Northstar through the Circles of the World to summon you here—but I do not know why she did so."

I pulled myself back to the here-and-now with a snap as I realized what must have happened. Serindë might not know—but I did. The more I thought about it, the angrier I got. Galadriel was no mastermind—she was a screw-up.

"Galadriel didn't want me—she wanted my mother. Mom must have read every book that was ever written about Middle-earth. She could have told Galadriel about all the important events in the Ring-War before they happened."

Clutching my traitorous necklace in one fist, I shook it at Serindë. "But Galadriel didn't get my mother-and I'm glad she didn't! Mom loves_ The Lord of the Rings _as a book—but she hates war. To see her beautiful fantasy turned into this ugly, bloody reality would break her heart."

From my own stream of information Serindë also plucked a fact that seemed significant to her. "What kind of books does your mother possess, that they foretell the future?"

"I thought you said that you didn't care how we gained our foreknowledge," I said with a smirk. And then something struck me. "Wait a minute! If the Northstar brought me here—can it send me back?"

"How would I know? I am no sorceress," Serindë snapped. "All that I know is that the Northstar will not allow its wearer to go where she would not go. Can you truly tell me that you wish to go home with all your heart and that there is nowhere else that you want to be?"

I wanted to go home—of course I did! But what about the wounded Riders of Rohan? The kids that I'd been leading? Beregond, who needed my help? And what about Éowyn?

I couldn't leave those people. We both knew that.

"Damn it."

Grabbing the necklace, I put it on and shoved it out of sight as usual. "What do we do next?"

'Next', according to Serindë, was to set up our base of operations. Lord Húrin's mansion was as good a place as any, she said, and at least in Éowyn's bedchamber we could look out at Mordor.

While Serindë wrapped up the palantír and took it upstairs (I didn't intent to touch that thing until I had to), I headed off to the kitchen to find out whether Narbeleth had left anything to eat. I'd had no time to stuff any more food into my basket, and half a dozen hoagie rolls and two oranges wouldn't hold us for very long.

Narbeleth had shuttered the windows before she'd left, so I lit a candle to look at the kitchen. The countertops were bare, the oven was cold, and the fireplace had been swept clean. A mere orc invasion wasn't going to interfere with Narbeleth's housekeeping, no sirree!

When I yanked open the cupboard doors I didn't see much that was edible. There was a bunch of dead carrots (useless), a chunk of hard cheese that was molding on one side (salvageable) and some dark fruitcake wrapped in wax paper (because nobody ever finishes the fruitcake.) More important even than food, though, were the two big earthenware jars beside the kitchen door that were full of water.

What, you thought Minas Tirith has indoor plumbing?

There was a message slateboard nailed over the jars, so I went over to see what was written on it:

_Helping out at the Houses of Healing—Come up and I'll feed you dinner—N._

_I am staying in the barracks—Do not worry about me—H_

_You do not have to eat that nasty barracks food-N_

It was kind of a cute message thread, and I wondered whether I scented a little romance there. But what was more important, it looked like nobody was going to barge in and disturb what we were up to. I have no idea how I could have explained what I was doing in Éowyn's bedroom with an Elf.

After hanging Lord Húrin's skeleton keys on the hook by the kitchen door, I went upstairs with my stuff and saw how the battle had devastated Lindóriel's pretty bedroom. The bay window was cracked from side to side and many of the panes had fallen onto the floor. Ash, dirt, even little pieces of rock had fallen inside and covered everything with a layer of grime.

I'd have to watch where I stepped—broken glass was sparkling all over the floor. When I entered the bedroom Serindë looked up for a second and then went back to picking up pieces of window glass and tossing them into a corner. There were two big candles burning on the bedside cabinet, and she'd liberated an octagonal side table from downstairs and placed it in the center of the room. Denethor's palantír, of course, was sitting on top of that table.

Luckily, my trundle bed had been tucked out of harm's way the whole time, so it was still clean. I pulled it out from under the Éowyn's bed, slid it next to the palantír table, and sat down on it tailor-fashion.

Seeing the palantír up close and uncloaked, it was hard to believe that it was really magic. A shiny black crystal ball flickering an eerie green—doesn't something like that show up every Halloween?

Serindë didn't even glance once at our tacky-looking magical artifact. She sat down beside me, gripped my shoulder with one hand and started to gently sway me back and forth. Frankly, it felt a little weird.

"What are you doing?"

"Checking leverage."

In other words, she was finding out whether she could shove me onto the floor on a count of one. Well, that's what she'd said that she needed to do. I sure hoped that she knew what she was doing.

"Now what?"

"Now you place your hands on the seeing stone and gaze into it deeply."

Leaning forward, I took my first good look into the palantír. On the surface of the stone I saw what seemed to be a mirror image of our bay window. Except that in the reflection the sky was brilliant blue, while the sky behind me had become a starless twilight.

Okay, that did feel mystical and eerie. Confronting real magic head-on, I had one last misgiving.

"Before we do this, I have to know—what's the worst-case scenario? What will happen if we try this and fail?"

Now Serindë was not the sort of Elf who liked to visualize failure. "This is a foolish question. I have already said that you need not fear Sauron. If he sees you I shall snatch you from the palantír before he can even realize that you are not Denethor. Do not fear for me either, for the same enchantment that Glorfindel used to defeat a great Balrog will armor me as well. As you may know, Balrogs are of the same dread lineage as Sauron himself."

"No, I didn't know." This was beginning to sound much better. "So, we're pretty much okay then, right?"

"Not really," Serindë said dampeningly. "The worst case, as you put it, is that you will succeed in finding the halflings and that I will succeed in shielding them from Sauron, but that at the Crack of Doom, the Ring-bearer will not destroy the Ring. As Isildur would not. In the end, Barbarella, it will be Frodo's choice no matter what we do."

Hearing that, I froze in horror and wanted to crawl into my own skin.

What Serindë had just described was only the second-worst case. The worst case was that it would all be my fault.

If you believe Tolkien, the Ring-Quest was well in hand and we shouldn't touch a thing.

If you believe in the Butterfly Effect, I'd changed everything as soon as I showed up in Middle-earth and we needed to go for the most strategic plan.

The worst terror you can imagine isn't a Nazgûl in the road ahead of you. It's knowing that you hold the fate of the world in your hands, and that you don't know what to do.

What should I do? **What should I do? WHAT SHOULD I DO?**

But I am the Heir of Naomi, and in my darkest hour, my inheritance came through. From the deepest part of my heart, a small voice seemed to speak to me:

"_Do or do not."_

And that was the solution to my problem! Look, when you're up against an Army of Darkness, and you have to fight an Evil Overlord, and somebody offers you the choice of 'do or do not'—the correct answer is always 'do!'

So I raised my chin high, and I stared Serindë right in the eye, and I said in a voice that was almost steady, "Okay, let's do this thing."

Serindë, of course, was more than ready to start doing. As she'd instructed me, I placed one palm on each side of the palantír and stared hard at that nonexistent summer sky—pushing my 'mind's eye' into the seeing stone. Eventually a smoky grey cloud appeared in the distance and got bigger and bigger until the whole viewscreen went black.

Serindë was facing away from the palantír, but I must have made some sort of disappointed grunt because she demanded testily, "What is it? What do you see?"

"Nothing! It's all black! I can't see a thing!"

"Try again—the Northstar cannot fail."

I returned to my task and peered again into the stone with no success. After several false attempts, I tilted the seeing stone a little and caught a glimpse of Mount Doom glowing red and orange. That's when I realized what was going on.

"Serindë! I can't see anything because it's night! I can see Mount Doom because it's got red-hot lava seeping down its slopes, but the rest of Mordor is too dark and gloomy for me to make out anything."

I released the palantír and shook out my aching fingers, then looked over at Serindë. She was trying to keep a straight face, but she wasn't trying very hard. "I had forgotten your lack of night vision. How can you mortals bear to live this way?"

I snapped back, "For what it's worth, we don't have to live this way for very long."

Hearing my angry retort as the 'shut-up' that it was, Serindë said in a slightly chastened tone, "We shall wait until dawn to find the halflings. Go to sleep, Barbarella, and I will watch over you."

A day of covert ops had really left me bushed, so I flopped down on the trundle bed, wrapped myself in its linen sheet and sacked out in the clothes I was wearing.


	29. Flowers and Ice

**Usual disclaimers and thanks**: Nothing is mine, etc., etc.

Thanks to my betas, eekfrenzy and Rose—and thanks also to my reviewers.

Reviews are my only reward. I like them a lot.

I'm glad (and relieved) that my readers like the origin story of Barbarella's Evenstar (Northstar now.) The 'Elven Jewel of Power' is a 'girl-falls-into-Middle-earth' cliché that you see rather often, and it can be annoying. But obviously, it had to be magic that brought her there, and in the _Lord of the Rings_, magic is rare and wielded by few.

_Sammy Holzbein:_ It looks speedy in the movie, but Frodo and Sam still have a long hike ahead of them. And yes, Serindë really is stuck-up. She's a High Elf who sees herself as superior even to the Sindarin Elf Haldir. But she wasn't born in Valinor, which makes her inferior to Galadriel. Elves do seem to think that way.

_midorimouse_7: Yes, Barbarella and Serindë really do bicker like sisters. Or maybe like Legolas and Gimli.

**Chapter 29 Flowers and Ice**

At the first pearly-pink sliver of dawn, Serindë nudged me awake. Rising before it got light was actually a good thing, because it meant that I had time to wash my face and eat breakfast—a couple of bread rolls, all of the cheese that I dared pick off the moldy lump, and half of an orange.

Elves need vitamins too, so I convinced Serindë to eat the other half. Call it a peace offering.

But most important of all, I'd brought Zubair's ground beans and samovar in my basket, so I had coffee! Without milk or sugar it was black as sin and bitter as death—very apropos under the circumstances.

After putting my cup on the cabinet I scooted the trundle bed back to the palantír. Serindë and I sat down side by side and once again I placed my hands on the stone, stared into it, and concentrated.

This time when the blue viewscreen opened up I could make out a dull grey landscape full of sharp jumbled rocks. I felt like I was winging my way far above the evil land of Mordor—no, who am I kidding? I felt like I was testing the Middle-earth mod of a Microsoft flight simulator.

"I can see the ground, but I don't see hobbits."

"Keep looking," Serindë ordered. "You will find them—you wear the Northstar."

Concentrate. Concentrate. I zoomed back and forth over a volcanic desert plain rent with jagged cracks and spiked with cruel rocks shaped like knives. On the horizon, Mount Doom was bleeding scarlet threads of lava and belching grey puffs of ash, but other than that, the landscape was motionless. I mentioned that to Serindë and she reminded me, "The Army of the West has drawn out Sauron's forces to clear the way for the Ringbearer."

There were no operating instructions for the seeing stone, but I figured that visualizing Frodo might be worth a try. Vivid blue eyes, curly brown hair, soulful expression, a gold ring on a chain hanging from his neck—oh yeah, and hairy feet. I could have visualized Sam too, of course, but even I tend to overlook the sidekick.

After trying and trying and trying, I finally saw two tiny specks moving toward the smoking mountain. I banked in their direction but I couldn't magnify the image. They could have been ants as far as I could tell, I told Serindë.

"They are the halflings—no one else would be traveling now toward Mount Doom," Serindë said firmly. "I must save my power for the last and the worst, but if you see anything approach them, warn me at once."

"How far do you think the Army of the West has gotten?"

"By now they have probably reached the Brown Lands. It would not be easy for Lord Aragorn to keep such a disparate group together, and that would eat up time."

"The Brown Lands? What are they?"

"It is a desolate place north of Ithilien."

"And how long will it take the Army of the West to reach the Black Gate?"

"You are the seer, Barbarella," Serindë said impatiently. "I have no way of knowing that."

In other words, no, we're not there yet. Shut up until you see something.

For hour after tedious hour I stared at two little specks slowly zigzagging across a pockmarked grey background. It was deadly. My eyes started to cross and I could barely stay awake.

Finally I said in desperation to Serindë, "Talk to me."

"Would you like me to sing?" she suggested.

No, I really wouldn't. Elf songs are like my Mom's Judy Collins records. It's not that they're bad or anything—they just don't speak to my generation. "I'd rather that you talked. Why don't you tell me about Princess Celebrían?"

So that's what she did. In scraps and snippets over hours of crystal-gazing, I was told about Celebrían—and also about Serindë. For many years after the fall of Gondolin, Serindë wandered—a refugee with no family and no purpose. For a while—centuries, maybe—she settled in a river-delta settlement called the Mouths of Sirion among Elves who were strangers to her. As Serindë put it, "I survived but I did not live." Increasingly sick of life in a swamp, she joined a band of Elves traveling east to the realm of Lórien. She dwelled in Lórien after that, but she didn't get along very well with the Wood Elves either. That's how things stood until 'one bright day' when Galadriel came to rule in Lórien and Serindë became the handmaiden and friend of Galadriel's daughter Celebrían.

I could relate to that.

According to Serindë, Celebrían was lovely and wise and kind, but she was always overshadowed by the more illustrious members of her family—first by her mighty mother, then by her husband, the renowned Lord Elrond of Rivendell. No one noticed her for herself—she was seen only as a daughter or a wife or a mother.

"And Celebrían would smile, and let it go at that," Serindë said bitterly. "Yet my Princess was almost as beautiful as Lúthien. Flowers grew where she put her foot."

I didn't know whether Serindë meant that last remark literally, because she also said that Celebrían was a magnificent embroiderer. "Arwen her daughter can sew a pretty banner, but I will tell you this—the needle of Celebrían could make flowers bloom on silk. I will show you, after we put up the stone tonight."

Right after nightfall, Serindë pulled out a silver locket that she'd had hidden under her battlegarb all this time. Well, it looked like silver, but it was actually mithril. Unlatching the oval lid, she displayed the treasure within: a brilliant bouquet of tiny wild roses, forget-me-nots and buttercups.

The crystal cover of the locket acted like a magnifying glass, so I could see that those glorious, lifelike flowers were perfectly formed right down to the slightest detail. I even imagined that I could make out thorns on the stems of the roses. It really was incredible.

"This is wonderful, Serindë—I can't even see the stitches!"

"Celebrían's artistry is a marvel," Serindë said proudly.

I peered into the locket a little longer, then tried to return it to Serindë-but she pressed it right back into my hands. "Very soon I shall go to join my Princess in Valinor. Keep this to remind you always that Celebrían of Lothlórien too was great in her own way."

There was never any point to arguing with Serindë, so I slipped the locket into my belt pouch. It worried me that Serindë had given me her most valued keepsake. She had to have a reason for doing this—but what?

I started the next morning by drinking coffee and staring out of the broken bay window at Minas Tirith. The White City was dark and solemn except for the Tower of Ecthelion, which glowed a faint pink in the false dawn. Nobody was stirring out of doors except the nightwatch, but lights were beginning to flicker in windows up to the seventh level.

What was Princess Éowyn doing? What did she think that I was up to, and how would she react when she found out? Whatever she was imagining, it couldn't possibly equal the truth!

When Serindë tapped me on the shoulder, I set down my coffee cup on the floor, scooted the trundle bed over to the palantír table, and went to work. My hobbit targets were easier to see than they had been the day before. They still looked like ants but they were much closer to Mount Doom, so I could see the landscape better in the ruddy lava light from the volcano. Or even worse, in the scarlet glare cast out by Sauron's Tower.

Once I peeked at the Tower for a second, and there really was a Lidless Eye on top of it. That seemed crazy to me. How could a humanoid like Sauron turn into a giant eyeball and survive? That Eye had to be some sort of fake—maybe it was an eye-shaped beacon that he'd stuck up there for some evil reason.

Although our mission was of cosmic importance, staring into that crystal for hour after hour was screamingly dull. Serindë's self-appointed task had to be even worse than mine. The only thing she did all day was stare at my face and listen to my heartbeat and my breathing—so she'd know at once if Sauron attacked me. She never even glanced into the palantír; that was strictly my job.

Bored out of my skull, I asked at one point, "So, what's your opinion on the Arwen and Aragorn thing?"

"By 'thing,' I suppose you mean their wish to marry?"

I glanced at Serindë's reflection in the palantír, and thought I saw a smirk on her face. "Yeah, the marriage thing. You must have some sort of opinion about it. She's Celebrían's daughter, after all."

"Arwen must give up her immortality to wed a mortal man. This was Lúthien's choice as well, but it is very hard to give up the immortal life for a brief span of joy. Still, if an Elf lacks the courage to pursue heart's desire at any cost, then of what use is long life?"

Serindë sounded very somber. She'd taken my frivolous question much more seriously than I'd intended, so I backpedalled and tried to lighten her up a bit. "What I really wanted to know is, as an Elf, do you think that Aragorn's hot? A lot of mortal women think he's even cuter than Frodo!"

From behind my back I heard a sniff. "I have no opinion about him."

"C'mon, no opinion at all?"

"He is of Isildur's Line and Chieftain of the Dúnedain, but other than that he does not seem particularly special," Serindë said dismissively. "It is hard for me to comprehend mortals. Only now am I beginning to understand you."

What did Serindë think that she understood about me? Now there was a question that I didn't dare ask—casually or otherwise!

Around noon I finally figured out how to operate the zoom. I turned around the crystal ball to look at the opposite side and there it was—a magnified moving picture that was as clear as the screen of a color TV. It was so simple that it really made me feel stupid.

As I watched, a fireball that looked a lot like Saruman's fire streaked through the sky. It was the first thing I'd seen moving in Mordor besides the hobbits—and Sauron's eyeball. The two hobbits had stopped in the middle of a pile of black volcanic boulders and Sam was giving a thin waterskin to his companion. Frodo clutched it to his chest, then held it up and shook out a pitiful stream of liquid into his mouth.

"I fixed the palantír, Serindë, and it really is Frodo and Sam. I can see them clearly now—they just finished the last of their water."

I looked down at my cup of coffee and started to shove it away with my foot, but Serindë grabbed my shoulder. "Do not allow false guilt to weaken you. You too have a duty that must be fulfilled."

She was right, I suppose. With a sigh, I scooped up my cup and drank the last few sips of cold coffee. It was nasty and left a bitter, oily aftertaste clinging to the roof of my mouth.

Now that I had a better view, I could see that the poor hobbits' arms and legs were sliced and scabbed and that their clothes were filthy and ragged. Frodo didn't look very much like Elijah Wood. He looked more like a middleaged rocker who'd done drugs and partied hard ever since he was twenty. His lips were puffy, his eyes sunken and glaring, and the skin of his face had an unhealthy greasy sheen.

Sam too was battered and grubby and hollow-eyed. And both of them were barefoot, which made it much worse. Yeah, I know about tough hobbit feet, but volcanic rock is hard and sharp. Obsidian is volcanic rock, and the ancient Aztecs made sacrificial daggers out of it!

After awhile Frodo and Sam pushed themselves away from the boulders and stumbled forward on a rockbed of sharp pebbles.

"They look all in. I don't know how much longer they can handle this without help. Can't we help them?"

Serindë hissed into my ear, "If the halflings can move forward on their own, they must do so. When they can no longer continue or if they are faced with mortal threat I will intervene, but I must select my hour wisely."

I saw her logic, I really did. But she wasn't the one who had to watch that deathmarch—she didn't even know what was going on. I decided to help her out with a running commentary:

"Frodo just fell again. Sam's pulling him up."

"Now Sam's limping. I think he twisted his ankle on that sharp rock."

"Sam's down—he's just lying there."

"Frodo is crawling up to him. He just crawled past him. Is this what you mean by 'move forward', Serindë?"

Serindë's only response was silence. I might have been pushing her a little too far, so I decided that the better part of valor was shutting up. Describing the things that I was seeing wasn't doing me much good either.

By nightfall the two hobbits had reached the very foot of Mount Doom, so I could make them out by lava-light. Sam found a hollow between two rocks and they crawled in out of sight for the night. They had no water, probably no food—it didn't even look like they had a blanket.

False guilt or no, knowing that I had all of these things wasn't much of a comfort—I couldn't drag my mind away from Mordor. Finally I pulled the bedcovers over my head and tried to sleep.

...

_Why was a tree sticking into my face?_

It felt like branches were digging into my face and my neck and my scalp. I opened my eyes and tried to make out what was going on, but all that I could see was black. I could feel things, though:

+a stabbing chest pain that reminded me of the time I'd cracked a rib on the 'baby slope' at Breckenridge

+cold metal shoving at me from all sides and pinning me in my seat

+snowflakes piling up on my numbing left arm

+icy winds pushing that numbness into my innards.

I drew a deep breath, but only once, because it made the stitch in my chest hurt too much. Where was I? If I couldn't get to someplace warm soon I'd be in real trouble.

Just above me, something was glowing faintly in the dark. I twisted my neck and looked up to see—a luminous figurine in the shape of a gray U.F.O. alien. No, I hadn't gone crazy; I knew exactly what that thing was and what it meant. It was the plastic space toy Mom had dangled from the rear-view mirror of her Hyundai.

I'd been sent back somehow to Pennsylvania—to the road accident that I'd been pulled away from. Another car had been barrelling toward me on a dark, icy road but I must have swerved at the last second and hit a tree.

Not for an instant did I think that my life in Middle-earth had been a dream. I'm no Judy Garland, and there had been too many things I'd experienced in Rohan and Gondor that I'd known nothing of before.

I did my best to squeeze out of the maze of tree branches, but with no luck. I was trapped. Hypothermia had to be setting in, so I'd be getting drowsy soon. I could die right there in my car seat.

Suddenly I heard the sound of crackling and I realized that I didn't need to worry about freezing to death after all. That noise was coming from a blaze close to the gas tank.


	30. Serindë's Hour

**Usual disclaimers and thanks**: Nothing is mine, etc., etc.

Thanks to my betas, eekfrenzy and Rose—and thanks also to my reviewers.

Reviews are my only reward. I like them a lot.

I feel a bit guilty about the way I harrowed up the ending of the last chapter. But in my own defense, I want to point out that I did something similar in _Misfit in Middle-earth_. I'm posting early since I'm going to an out-of-town science fiction convention. I've read all your reviews but I don't have time to send off any individual replies right now.

_Gollykins_: According to Wikipedia, all that you can do with palantíri is communicate with the other seeing-stones—but that doesn't make sense. Why would Saruman and Denethor have kept using them if they couldn't see anything useful?

_cjsl8ne:_ A happy ending for Barbarella? To quote from _The Last Unicorn_ once again—there's no such thing as a happy ending, because nothing ever ends. Also, twenty-five house points for the closest guess about what was going on last chapter.

_S:_ I hope this chapter makes you feel better. It ends with another cliffhanger, though.

**Chapter 30 Serindë's Hour**

…and then Serindë shook me awake.

Panting and shuddering, I shot up in bed. I cracked open my eyes but it was pitch black, a starless night. Serindë didn't bother with candles after dark since she didn't need them. "I had a nightmare."

"Yes."

I closed my eyes and listened to the hammering of my heart. "I dreamed that I was back in Pennsylvania."

"But it was not a good dream."

"No, no, it wasn't. I dreamed that I'd been snapped back to the same danger I'd been in when I was swept away—but it was a few minutes later. First I was going to freeze to death on an icy road, then it looked like I was about to be cooked alive when my vehicle caught on fire."

"This could explain much," Serindë said thoughtfully. "Given those circumstances, I assume that you would prefer to be in Middle-earth. "

I frowned when I figured out what she was saying. "Serindë—can Galadriel send dreams into other people's minds at a distance?"

"I believe that she can. But Galadriel is always a part of the dream."

What an egotist! I'm sure that I snorted at that, but Serindë pretended not to notice. The mattress shifted slightly as she stood up and moved away. After a moment or so, she came back and placed a cup of water into my hands.

I gulped it down and asked for more. That night I felt absolutely parched. I'm sure that Frodo and Sam were feeling parched too.

While she was getting my second cup of water, I twitched away the cloak that covered the seeing stone. At least the palantír was a nice night light. "Spot me, Serindë."

Setting the cup within my reach, Serindë sat down next to me on the unmade bed. Without another word, we began our night watch. It was too dark for me to see Frodo and Sam, but I could reconnoiter the path they would take the next day. Even at night the red-hot lava reflected against the clouds of ash and shone a sullen light onto Mount Doom. I slid my vision up the slope until I spotted a black road that twisted around the mountain until it entered the volcanic cone through a dark tunnel. That had to be where Frodo was supposed to go.

It looked like they would be going up the north face. Comparatively speaking, it was a gentle slope. Except for razor-sharp rocks and the chance of lava, it wouldn't be much of a climb for two hikers in good condition. But 'in good condition' was no description of Frodo and Sam—Mordor had ground them down until there wasn't much left.

Sometime soon, Serindë's enchantment would have to take up the slack.

When I returned to point zero, the hollow was still dark. I waited impatiently, and every time I felt like I was zoning out, I bit my knuckles. The dirty pink that passed for dawn in that terrible land finally arrived, but there was still no movement from the hobbits. I had the sudden, irrational fear that they might have died during the night, and I was about to fisheye in to look when Frodo and Sam staggered into sight.

Both of them stared up the slope and got a good—or bad—look at how far they still had to go. Even through a palantír, I could see the hope dying in their eyes. Frodo sank down on a rock and sat for awhile, then wobbled to his feet and took a few steps before falling to his knees and collapsing.

And then… he began to crawl forward on his hands and his knees.

Before I could explain to Serindë why I was crying, Sam shouted something at Frodo. I can't read lips and palantírs don't have audio, so I had no idea what he was saying, but he bent over and hefted Frodo onto his back in a fireman's carry. Did he actually believe he could carry Frodo up Mount Doom on his shoulders?

That's when I lost it. "Sam's trying to carry Frodo up Mount Doom. It won't work—he'll break his heart trying."

"Do not lose heart now. Remember what your Princess says—there is always hope."

I slipped my gaze from the palantír to peek at Serindë. For once, instead of an aura of death, she was shining with a love of life. Frodo and Sam weren't just tools to her after all—she truly wanted them to live.

Unbelievably, Sam kept climbing and clambering up the slope with Frodo clinging to his back, turning this way and that to find a slightly easier way up, grabbing at handholds that I knew had to be obsidian-sharp, and finally crawling like a snail bearing a precious shell.

Every second I was terrified that Sam would lose his grasp on a handhold and they'd tumble to their deaths, but Sam finally pulled them both up the slope and reached that narrow black track. Oh, the look of joy on their faces when they realized that there was a road! Frodo rolled off Sam's back and they both squatted to rest, but then Frodo jumped up and gaped wildly to the east as if he was seeing something terrible. I followed his gaze and saw that he was—it was the blazing eye on top of Sauron's Tower.

Slowly Frodo's hand crept to his throat and he began to pull at the chain on his neck, but Sam grabbed his hand. He pulled Frodo onto his back again and wearily stumbled down the track. I tried to estimate how much longer it would take for them to reach the tunnel, but I couldn't translate my earlier bird's-eye view into the movement of a hobbit who was practically dead on his feet.

The black track was jumbled over with boulders and sliced with dangerous little crevasses. That wretched excuse for a road sliced through an upturned block of volcanic stone that rose up in crumbling spars. As I watched Sam take a hairpin turn to the south I began to feel a vague alarm. The whole area was a rockslide waiting to happen.

Halfway through the roadcut, my fear was realized. What appeared to be a boulder plummeted down not three feet away from them. "Serindë! A rock fell on them! No, wait, it isn't a rock! Something is attacking them!"

I zoomed in tight and saw that some sort of withered, half-dead thing was wrestling and grappling with both hobbits at once. Whatever it was, it had jumped onto Frodo and was ripping at his neck with long, bony fingers that looked like claws.

"Gollum!" I shrieked. "That's got to be Gollum!"

In that instant Serindë straight-armed me off the trundle bed and I tumbled backward onto the floor. Staring down at me with eyes brighter than the palantír, she said, "It is my turn now. Do not gaze into the seeing stone again until I give you permission."

Taking a half-step back, she spoke—but not to me! Her words sounded even more ancient than High Elvish.

_Let the vials of my spirit be opened  
Let it pour out in one matchless hour  
Terrible be my strength  
Invincible be my power  
Of my own will I make this choice  
Vairë! Unpick the weave of an immortal life!_

With a silver knife that suddenly appeared in her right hand, Serindë sliced open her left palm in one quick movement. As blood dripped from her hand, the drops of red transmuted into gold. Slapping her bloody palm onto the palantír, she stared into it for the first time. "Quick, Barbarella, I need your help. Place your hand upon the stone."

When I pulled myself up from the floor, the palantír was englobed with golden light, but the light wasn't coming from the stone—it was emanating from Serindë. I gulped hard and followed her orders.

I concentrated on the palantír until the image reformed. Gollum and Frodo were still locked in combat and Gollum was tearing at Frodo's head and neck as he tried to get at the Ring. Frodo was fighting back, and his face was nearly as savage and maniacal as Gollum's. There was a sword in Sam's hand but the other two were twisting and turning so fast that he couldn't strike.

At that moment Serindë…flared. From her left hand a golden light poured into the palantír and filled the whole field of vision like the beam from a spotlight. As if he'd gotten a heavy jolt of electricity, Frodo's horrid little attacker writhed back onto the ground. Sam kicked him away from Frodo, but in one last desperate spurt of malice, Gollum fastened his teeth on Sam's ankle. Sam kicked at him with his other foot, and the goblin flew through the air to strike the ground, twitched like a spider under a magnifying glass, then went completely still.

For better or for worse, Gollum was no longer a part of this story.

Both hobbits stared up openmouthed at the golden light as Serindë spoke to them through the seeing stone. "Let me help, Ring-bearer."

"Who… who are you?" Frodo gasped. "What do you want?"

"I am Serindë and I serve the Lady Galadriel. You met me at Lothlórien, Frodo."

"Did Galadriel send you to us?"

Serindë paused for a moment; I don't think that Elves like to lie. "Galadriel summoned my companion, Barbarella of Hershey, to this task. Say something to the halflings, Barbarella."

The palantír didn't have audio, so we couldn't hear each other talk. I was actually communicating via telepathy! "Uh-hi Frodo, hi Sam."

Serindë muscled back in swiftly after my few words of idiotic babble. "I have cast a great enchantment to shield and protect you from the Shadow—"

Frodo interrupted, awestruck. "It's true, Sam! I don't feel any worse than I did at Weathertop!"

"—but the enchantment can prevail for only an hour—perhaps two. In that brief amount of time, can you reach the Crack of Doom and destroy the Ring?"

It was Sam Gamgee who answered, "Yes."

"Sam, you're hurt!" Frodo had just gotten a look at Sam's foot, which was running with blood where Gollum had chomped it. Hastily, he ripped off a sleeve to use as a bandage.

His sweaty, grimy sleeve! Well, I'd done worse at the Battle of Helm's Deep.

"No, Mister Frodo—you go ahead!" Sam insisted. "I'll catch up when I can. There's no time to lose!"

Realizing the truth of Sam's words, Frodo dropped the sleeve and grasped his friend's shoulder. "Farewell, Sam—fare well! I'll wait for you there."

Sam stared up into the light and said fiercely, "You two look out for him, hear?"

As Frodo walked deeper and deeper into that chunk of basalt, he seemed to have grown a little stronger. Being shielded from the Shadow must have pulled the equivalent of a couple of gravities off his shoulders.

This was no fantasy movie, I told myself. This was real life, and I was a part of the team. True, all that I could do was navigate, but if I was R2D2 on this flight then I would be a good little droid.

I scanned to the right and I scanned to the left, vowing that I would spot any more dangers along Frodo's path long before he could get to them. Every now and then, I flipped up the view so Serindë could check the rocks overhead. There would be no more ambushes from above on my watch! I couldn't see anything in the dark myself, but Serindë had Elf-vision.

When Frodo reached the dark tunnel I started to get twitchy. This was the part in the epic where the trap was usually sprung—just when the hero was about to succeed. I vaguely remembered from a trailer-

"Watch out for spiders," I blurted out.

"Isn't it a little late for that?" Frodo asked incredulously. Shaking his head, he stepped into the tunnel.

For a second I couldn't see what he was doing, and then Serindë's glow blasted into the tunnel like a spotlight. The tunnel looked like it had been chopped from igneous rock that had been extruded only recently. It must have been a lava vent from time to time, but we were probably safe for now.

Of course, I was a lot safer than Frodo.

As he walked through the tunnel, Frodo seemed to be fiddling with the Ring. I elbowed Serindë and mouthed, "What do we do if he puts it on?"

Serindë glowed a little brighter but she had no ideas either. We'd have to cross that bridge if we came to it.

I wasn't going to be surprised again, so I pushed my field of view up to the end of the tunnel. Something dark and misty was blocking the entrance. I didn't like the look of that, so I did a quick zoom.

Black robes, bony fingers, glowing eyes. It was a Nazgûl—where no Nazgûl was supposed to be!

It wasn't the Witch-King, but it was bad enough. Tattered black robes flowed around the lesser Ringwraith like a mass of living shadow and his sword glittered red in the lava light. Surrounded by Serindë's aura, I could feel his thoughts. Underneath a constant scream of agony, the Nazgûl was thinking that the Ring was very close…

"Go back to your grave, dead man," Serindë said icily. She thrust out her hand and golden rays slammed through the Nazgûl as if he were nothing but tissue paper. After a brief moment of incandescence, all that was left was a whirlwind of black ash and a sword that dropped onto the tunnel floor.

Éowyn and Merry had almost died killing a Nazgûl. I stared incredulously at Serindë. "You made that look easy!"

"There is not much to a Nazgûl but shriek, smoke, and Shadow." Serindë's eyes were glowing like—well, like your basic taken-over-by-an-alien SF character. But she was still one of the good guys. I hoped.

By the time I refocused on Frodo, he'd reached the scorch mark that used to be a Nazgûl. Frodo was shuffling like a zombie and didn't even bother to look down at it. When he reached the end of the tunnel, he clutched a rock at the lip of the entrance and laboriously hauled himself outside.

And then, in a feverish haste, he scrambled right back again—so frantically that he tumbled backwards. Without even stopping to turn around, he scuttled back crab-fashion on his hands and his heels. His terrified eyes were wide as saucers as he stared at the thing that filled the mouth of the tunnel.

A giant reptilian head was snaking inside at awful speed on a grey-green serpentine neck. I'd never seen a taerodrake this close. That huge, fang-full head was as big as a Volkswagen Beetle!

"Do something!" I shrieked at Serindë. "Kill it!"

"I cannot touch it!" Serindë shouted back angrily. She seemed almost as panicked as I was. "It is not Shadow—it is only an animal!"

It was only an animal—but it was a predator, and it was hungry!


	31. Endgame

**Usual disclaimers and thanks**: Nothing is mine, etc., etc.

Thanks to my betas, eekfrenzy and Rose—and thanks also to my reviewers.

Reviews are my only reward. I like them a lot.

Whew! In spite of the chapter title, this is **not** the end of the story. There are some ups and downs in this chapter, but all in all, I'm rather proud of how it turned out.

_S:_ Thanks for the compliment on my descriptions. It is also nice to know that people actually like my OFC's personality!

_cjsl8ne:_ We can't be sure that Barbarella's dream was actually 'educational.' It didn't have Galadriel in it, so maybe it was just a dream! But I guess once you've trudged through two-thirds of a fantasy trilogy you start to believe in this mystical stuff.

_Sammy Holzbein_: My story doesn't really change canon so very much, but I didn't want to write a paint-by-numbers Ringquest, so I didn't. And yup, I really don't think that it's fun to be a Nazgûl.

**Chapter 31 Endgame**

Frodo pulled himself up to his feet and was pressing his body to the tunnel wall as he sidled away from the creature. But I had surveyed that tunnel closely and I knew that there was no place in the hacked-out wall big enough to hide a hobbit. If that monster was really determined it could crane its neck further into the tunnel and slurp Frodo up.

This wasn't supposed to happen! What had I done? I'd destroyed the world!

As the taerodrake's scale-armored chin scraped along the rocky floor, Frodo was slithering along the tunnel wall like a lizard trying to escape from a cat. In this darkest of all dark moments, Serindë and I turned to each other and screamed in wild surmise, "Light!"

Lowering her face until her lips touched the palantír, Serindë commanded, "Close your eyes, Frodo—cover them up tight. You too, Barbarella."

Terrified, Frodo did as she'd ordered. I slapped my hands over my eyes in the nick of time. Even through my fingers and my eyelids I saw a blinding flash like a magnesium flare at close range.

When I opened my eyes I could barely make out—through a blur of blotchy stars!—the head of the taerodrake retreating swiftly down the tunnel. Frodo peeked fearfully through his fingers. "Is it gone?"

Finding out the answer to that question was my job. I pushed my field of vision past the mouth of the tunnel just as the huge creature made a blind misstep and toppled toward the lava. Flapping madly, it caught an updraft at the very last second and made it into the air—but one of its wings was on fire.

I zoomed back into the tunnel and told Frodo, "It's gone now—you have a clear shot at the Crack of Doom."

Frodo nodded wearily and stumbled to the tunnel mouth, and I zoomed forward to see what was lurking out there. Good! No more monsters. He was almost at the core of the volcano. Right in front of him there was a stone observation platform supported by several stone columns. That platform ought to be safe enough—for awhile. The molten heart of the volcano lay directly under the platform.

Like Gehenna, the burning lake of fire.

Frodo's steps were getting slower and slower as he emerged from the tunnel. Was he being overcome by volcanic gases that Serindë and I weren't able to sense? At the very end of the platform, Frodo paused and looked up longingly into the cloudy sky. One lone star still shone through all the smoke and the haze. Most likely, it was the Evenstar. I focused in tight and saw tears glimmering on his cheeks.

This close to the Crack of Doom, the fiery light from the lava almost drowned out Serindë's golden glow. Firelight flickered eerily on Frodo's face and made his blank features seem inhuman and metallic as he pulled the chain over his head and stood staring stupidly at the Ring clenched in his hand.

Serindë and I waited for what seemed an eternity. It was probably a minute. Then she whispered, "This is what I feared. He cannot destroy the Ring. Perhaps no one can."

I didn't want to believe that. It couldn't end like this—it just couldn't.

In one more surveillance screw-up, I didn't even notice Sam Gamgee until he hobbled out of the tunnel. "Do it, Mister Frodo!" he shouted. "What are you waiting for? Pitch it in!"

When Frodo heard the voice of his friend, his back straightened and he didn't look like the walking dead anymore. He'd just been reminded that he had someone to fight for.

Gritting his teeth, Frodo held out his right hand—and the Ring. With agonizing slowness, his little finger pulled away from his fist.

Frodo shuddered at the brink of the Crack of Doom, and the world shuddered with him.

He was gasping for breath as if he was running a marathon, but his thumb curled up and out.

Index finger next. Frodo was shaking as if he was having a seizure.

After that the middle finger.

Finally Frodo pulled his ring finger completely free. The Ring fell to the ground by his foot and winked evilly from the top of a black rock the size of his fist.

"Do it, Mister Frodo!" Sam yelled.

Frodo screwed his eyes shut as if he was terrified to look down. Believe me, I'm positive that he was terrified.

There had to be something we could do to help him, but what? Maybe we could use Serindë's telepathy to combine our willpowers…

At that moment I heard a strange whisper at the back of my head_**. **__"Don't let him do it, sweetie. Don't let him throw away your only chance to come home."_

It was Sauron's Ring, and it was tempting me in Mom's voice!

When I look back on it—which is an exceptionally painful thing to do, believe me—I don't honestly think that I would have succumbed to the Ring. Not at that range, anyway. But the Voice was so distracting that I couldn't think about anything else.

If you can't enslave, I guess that ensnaring will do.

That's why I wasn't really looking when Frodo desperately pulled back one foot—and booted the Ring over the goal posts.

And the crowd went wild!

"HE DID IT! HE DID IT! HE DID IT!" Serindë was screaming and bouncing up and down and waving her arms in the air. She capped it all off by yanking me to my feet and bouncing me up and down too.

"What happened? I didn't see anything!"

"You still saw nothing? Are you blind?" Serindë asked breathlessly. "Frodo kicked the Ring right into the Crack of Doom! It sat for an instant on the lap of the molten rock, then sank into nothingness."

"So what happened to Sauron?" I demanded. "Was Sauron destroyed?"

Serindë threw back her head and laughed shrilly. Even if her eyes hadn't been glowing, that laugh would have been creepy. "He most certainly was! I heard him scream—I felt him die. It was sweet, Barbarella, it was sweet."

Dragging my hand onto the stone, she said, "Let us now behold the ruin of Barad-dûr."

I obediently slid the image to the east and we saw that the eyeball-shaped beacon on Sauron's Dark Tower was gone forever. In the midst of the fire and the gloom, one rock wall rippled and quaked, another wall broke free altogether, and finally the whole vast structure collapsed in on itself with a soundless 'whomp!'

There was still no audio, but I knew what it sounded like. I've watched a tower go down like that before.

We were both completely absorbed by this scene of destruction when I remembered something more time-sensitive. Before Serindë could pull away her hand, I rolled us back to the Crack of Doom. Frodo and Sam were bouncing too—well, Sam was hopping on one foot. Beneath them, the lava was glowing almost as bright as day.

Uh oh.

"Frodo! Sam!" I screamed. "Get out of there—get out of there now! Keep to the high ground if you can but get out fast!"

When I interrupted their victory dance they both looked up, startled, but Sam quickly pulled Frodo back to the tunnel. I was pushing my view forward to follow them when Serindë's hand slipped from the palantír. As she crumpled to the floor I was barely able to keep her from hitting her head.

What was going on here? I knelt by her side and worriedly shook her shoulder. Her breathing was shallow and her eyelids were fluttering. And of course we had no first-aid supplies.

Serindë opened her eyes and weakly slid her hand up my forearm to my shoulder. The glowing had stopped and her eyes were once again a silver-blue. "We worked well together, you and I. That is something that I have said to no other mortal—and to few Elves."

"Serindë? Are you all right? What happened?"

"I am dying, Barbarella. All the strength of my immortal life I spent in a single hour, and that hour is done. But I have no regrets, for it was a very good hour. I go now to be with Princess Celebrían in Valinor. With all my heart, that is where I want to be."

I was trying not to bawl. I should have realized what she was up to—all the clues had been there. Ruminating about death. Giving away a priceless possession. "We really did work well together, didn't we, Serindë?"

This was my last chance to ask something I'd been hesitant to ask before. "When you said that you were beginning to understand me—what did you mean?"

Serindë studied my face, then said in a soft drawl that was most unlike her, "We are more alike than I would have thought. You love your Princess as I love mine, but what you cleave to is your sense of duty. You live among people who cannot see the world as intently as you do. And you never quit—you are most determined."

"But I'm not as determined as you are—nobody could be," I said shakily. And I'd doubted what I was doing every second!

Serindë sounded almost surprised as she added, "I never looked deeply at mortals. To me you all seem either savage or subservient. Except for your Kings, and they are so much less than the elven Kings. But I have looked at you, and I saw an immortal spirit shining out from your mortal flesh. We will not meet again until the End of All Things, but I shall remember you."

"I'll remember you too, Serindë."

In a fading voice, Serindë said, "Tell Galadriel—no, I will tell her myself if she ever gets to Valinor."

Those were Serindë's last words. Her death was peaceful and she went out joyfully. I should have been glad for her, but it was terrible to lose a friend. I felt so selfish—I wanted to keep her.

While I was willing myself to let her go, a gold mist emanated from Serindë's body that hovered awhile like a sunset-touched cloud, and then, as clouds do, it moved away—right through the broken window. I watched it as long as I could, standing on tiptoe as it picked up speed and turned in a great arc to head due west. I couldn't see it after that, because the window faced east toward the broken land of Mordor.

Serindë's body was lying there still and beautiful, but I knew that it wasn't Serindë at all—it was just an unneeded husk. Serindë herself was zipping off to Valinor, and what a story she had to tell to her Princess!

I'd never closed the eyes of a dead person before, but it wasn't as bad as I'd feared. It was sad, though, to know that I'd never look into her eyes again.

As it turned out, I was wrong about that. Much later on, I found out that whenever someone looked into that palantír, Serindë's eyes were the first thing they'd see looking out.

BOOM!

That tremendous noise was the sound of Mount Doom blowing up. I spun around and saw that the volcano was shooting giant fountains of lava and massive clouds of gas high into the air. There was no way that a pair of hobbits could run fast enough to get out. I hadn't destroyed the world—but Frodo and Sam must have been cooked alive.

Then I said to myself, "No. There is always hope."

This time I'd have to count on _Lord of the Rings_. I might not know much about Tolkien's trilogy, but I did know that Frodo and Sam weren't supposed to die at the end. Whatever ingenious escape plan Tolkien had created for them, I didn't see how I could have messed it up.

Anyway, there was nothing more that I could do. As Serindë might have said—it was done. I wrapped myself up in the beautiful warm elven cloak that she'd given me and curled up on the trundle bed. I was just so, so tired. I had to close my eyes.

Just... for a… few…minutes…


	32. No Really, I've Got a Good Explanation

**Usual disclaimers and thanks**: Nothing is mine, etc., etc.

Thanks to my betas, eekfrenzy and Rose—and thanks also to my reviewers.

Reviews are my only reward. I like them a lot.

Well, in spite of everything she's done, there will be no triumphal procession for Barbarella. Once again, she is not the Hero of the Hour.

_S:_ Serindë's ending was pretty inevitable—you can't be invincible for free. As one of Diane Duane's characters put it, "You can defeat the Lone Power—people do it all the time. But somebody usually has to die.

_cjsl8ne_: The story is mostly done but I wanted to reassure people that this is not the end even though Frodo's quest is complete. Reminds me of my third viewing of ROTK. As Frodo told Sam, "I'm glad you're here with me at the end of all things," I leaned over and whispered to eekfrenzy, "Roll credits…"

_Sammy Holzbein_: You got it—the gold mist that shot off to Valinor is a mirror image of what happened to book-Saruman. The "eyes showing up in the palantír" has a counterpart in the book too. Yes, Serindë was lucky. She got her own way, she succeeded in her quest, and she knows that she's going off to be with her Princess—to the Halls of Mandos first, actually, but I doubt they'd want to keep her very long. The icing on the cake? She'll be settled in with Celebrían **before** Elrond and Galadriel get to Valinor.

_midorimouse7: _Well, I'm glad I got to you!

**Chapter 32 No Really, I've Got a Good Explanation**

Somebody was shaking my shoulder. When I opened my eyes, the first thing I saw was blonde hair, and for a second I thought that I was looking up at Serindë.

But no, it was Princess Éowyn.

"What time is it?" I mumbled. By then the bedroom was looking pretty gloomy. "What's going on?"

"It is nearly dusk and I have been looking all over for you," Éowyn said. "You were gone so long—I was worried."

I sat up and wiped the sleep from my grainy eyes. Yeah, I'd been napping for a bit—the candles had all guttered out. I could smell sulfur in the air and I heard thunder and the pattering of raindrops on stone.

From behind me, a voice that I recognized as Master Mornacollo's quavered, "There is a dead Elf on the floor, Princess Éowyn."

He was staring down at Serindë's dead body in horror.

"I've got an explanation," I said hastily to Éowyn.

"You always do," she answered with a straight face. "How did Serindë die?"

"She told me—" Taking a deep breath, I said it all in one gulp. "She had me get Denethor's palantír to look for Frodo and when we found him she performed a great enchantment so that he would be able to resist Sauron and destroy the Ring—and he did—but she had to sacrifice her immortal life to do it."

My boss blinked in surprise, but zeroed in immediately on the most important issue.

"Was Sauron truly defeated?" Éowyn gestured with her hand at Mount Doom, which was still belching out clouds of smoke. "We all saw the mountain erupt—but what does it mean? Do you know for certain that we won, Barbarella?"

"I know what we saw—I know what Serindë saw. And she said—"

"Wait!" Éowyn interrupted. "Let's go downstairs. Faramir will want to hear this as well. Mornacollo, bring the stone. We will bring down Serindë's body a little later."

Prince Faramir? I didn't think I was ready for a political audience. I was dirty and rumpled and I was afraid that I smelled kinda funky. But in times like these, you can't sweat the small stuff. After I hunted up my slippers Éowyn supported my elbow all the way downstairs.

Gingerly bearing the palantír, Mornacollo followed a few steps behind. The stone was uncovered, but at this point that probably didn't matter.

When we got to the ground floor, I saw that Prince Faramir was in the sitting room making himself at home—and so was Merry! Had Éowyn dragged both of them on a Barbarella-hunt?

Faramir was wearing a green linen suit and was leaning on a big wooden staff tipped with carved white wings. He still looked pretty tired. Merry, on the other hand, was almost perky. Never underestimate a hobbit! I finally had a chance to see him in his hobbit finery. Somebody had mended the clothes that he was wearing when I first met him and they looked almost new.

"So the wanderer is found," Prince Faramir said with a tolerant smile.

"Faramir!" Éowyn said excitedly. "Wait until you hear what Barbarella has to say!"

Merry trumped them both by shrieking, "Where did you get that palantír?"

That last certainly snapped Faramir to attention! After directing a long, careful look at the palantír that Mornacollo brought into the sitting room, he echoed Merry. "Yes, Barbarella, exactly how **did** you obtain Lord Aragorn's palantír?"

This was a story that I felt was better suited to a later time—a much later time. What I told him was the truth—but not the whole truth. "Oh, no, this isn't Lord Aragorn's palantír—it's your father's palantír. I just went up to the flag storage room below the summit of the White Tower, and there it was."

Prince Faramir's eyes narrowed and he looked really, really grim. As we both knew, you don't 'just go up' to the top of the Tower without authorization, and you certainly don't touch the possessions of the Steward unless you are ordered to—but it was too late for him to argue about it.

I don't know whether he was more upset that I'd located his father's secret room, or that I'd gone there without authorization, or that I'd liberated the palantír without being stopped—but in any case, seeing him so shocked that I'd actually done it gave me a certain sense of accomplishment.

"Never mind that now!" Princess Éowyn interrupted. "Sauron has been destroyed! Barbarella has seen this herself!"

Faramir looked at me sharply. "You saw this through the stone, did you, and not your second sight?"

Aha! Faramir was a nonbeliever. I used to be one myself…

"Yes, sir. Our Elf companion Serindë wanted to help Frodo through the stone. When Frodo reached the Crack of Doom, she protected him from Sauron with a powerful enchantment so he could destroy the Ring. The magic that she used took Serindë's life, but before she died, she told me that she felt Sauron die first."

I was waiting for Faramir to say, "she?" but he never did. Guess that wasn't very important just then.

"A halfling did what Isildur could not?" Faramir shook his head, nonplussed, as if he couldn't believe it. "Then it is over, Éowyn—Sauron's Army will not fight without Sauron. The Army of the West will return victorious."

He reached over and took Éowyn's hand. "When Lord Aragorn returns, we will have to tell him what the Elf and your Counsellor have done. I believe you said that he knows her from before?"

Éowyn smiled smugly. "He surely does."

"Then this matter would be better dealt with by Lord Aragorn when he returns."

"But what happened to Frodo and Sam?" Merry demanded. "Are they all right? Did you see what happened to them?"

That was a question I didn't have a good answer for. I had to say, "The last time I saw them, Frodo and Sam were running away from Mount Doom a couple of minutes before the eruption."

Merry gasped and went pale.

"I know how hopeless that sounds, Merry." Directing a sharp look at Éowyn, I added, "We thought that Lord Aragorn was dead too, didn't we?"

Éowyn instantly lobbed that one back at me. "But your second sight told you that he was fated to live. Is this so for Merry's friends as well?"

"Yes!" I might not know much about the trilogy, but everybody knows that.

"So there is still hope!" I concluded. "I have to hope that somehow they made it onto a high rock and that they'll be able to escape—although I have no idea how."

After hearing this patently-ridiculous prophecy, Faramir said nothing. He isn't the kind of guy who likes to crush the spirits of nice ladies and little hobbits.

Éowyn said nothing either, because I'd already told Merry what she would have said: "There is still hope!"

As for Merry, he took my statement as a challenge and as a puzzle. After cudgeling his brains furiously, he shook his head. "I can't think of a way. Unless…there were Eagles?"

"Eagles?" That didn't ring a bell for me.

"Yes, Eagles. They helped Gandalf once before," Merry replied with a surge of new confidence. "Gwaihir the Windlord, swiftest of the Great Eagles, found Gandalf trapped on the topmost pinnacle of Orthanc, and bore him away to safety."

"Then we must hope for Eagles!" Éowyn exclaimed.

"Oh, THOSE Eagles!" I slapped my forehead in chagrin.

After the crisis was over, I—and everyone else in the city of Minas Tirith—had to sit and wait for the Army to return. For a week. Seven freakin' days! We placed Serindë's body next to the body of King Théoden to wait for her people to take her home, and after that I had nothing important left to do.

Éowyn didn't need a nursemaid, and I certainly hoped that she and Faramir didn't need a chaperone. I would have loved to use the palantír to check on the status of the Army of the West—and on Frodo and Sam, too—but Faramir confiscated it. He snagged my diplomatic medallion too.

So I returned to the Houses of Healing, where Narbeleth had loads of things for me to do. When I walked into the kitchen in the southwest wing, she had the ovens going and the granite floor squeaky-clean and she was giving orders to a ragtag group of boys, most of whom I didn't recognize.

"This time I'm not raising the old helium hand," I told myself. "I'm not getting landed with another bunch of kids."

After the boys had been given their marching orders, Narbeleth shifted her attention to me. "Barbarella, you and I both know that oats are a food suited to men. This is not the custom in Minas Tirith, where the grain is usually given to horses. But our pantries are empty, so for now the horses must eat grass. We must feed the Riders."

She gave me a contraption that resembled an antique meat grinder and set me to work rolling oats. It wasn't too bad a job, except that after a couple of hours, my knuckles and my palms really started to smart. The kitchen was safe and warm, and Narbeleth even scared me up a clean blue gown and a white apron. Except for my red hair, I looked just like Fíriel the serving maid.

All day long, boys kept running in and out on errands. I never did see Elric, but I assumed he was working in the stables. I got to hear all of the scuttlebutt from Ioreth, who came by frequently to chat. Narbeleth's replies started out short and ended up shorter, but that didn't stop Ioreth.

At last Ioreth burst in to announce, "Our cavalry is coming back! An Elf who is watching at the top of the White Tower—you know all of those Elves have wonderful vision—says that they are but three days away!"

As Ioreth rushed out to spread the word, Narbeleth started to yank open the doors of the supply cabinets. Stony-faced and silent, she pulled out bowls and jars and canisters one after another, set them all on the wooden table in the middle of the kitchen, and went through them with an anguished expression. Finally she sat down on a kitchen chair, buried her face in her hands, and began to moan—the horrible, tearless sobs of a woman too proud to cry.

Fortunately there were no kids around to hear her and be terrified. I tiptoed over and asked nervously, "Is there anything I can do to help?"

Narbeleth's voice was so thick and grief-stricken that I could barely make out what she was saying. "I…I wanted to bake some of the oatmeal cookies that Beregond loved when he was a little boy, but there is… there is no honey."

That poor, poor woman. Everyone else in the White City was crazy with joy, hoping and praying that their loved ones would soon be home safe and sound. But Narbeleth's son was coming home to be executed.

I put my hand on Narbeleth's narrow shoulder and promised her, "I'll get you your honey somehow."

I'd also see what I could do about that other little matter.

Tracking down sweets in a city under siege is no snap—especially with no diplomatic medallion. I chalked in the mission on the break room slateboard, then forayed out on my honey-hunt. Where could I go? I'd already sacked the pantry of the White Tower, and Merethrond, the Great Hall of Feasts, was disappointingly unhelpful—it didn't even have a kitchen. They must wheel in their banquets on steam tables. As for Tower Guard HQ, it was practically down to crackers and jerky. No wonder that young guard had been tempted by an orange!

The fifth level military butteries had nothing but C-rations—in other words, if it wasn't suitable for a backpack, they didn't carry it. Working my way down through the levels of the city, I checked out the five bakeries on the fourth level. Two were shuttered for the duration, two had no honey and were running out of flour, and in the last bakery, the crusty old baker was down to his last jar of honey and wasn't about to hand it over for free. No, he wanted money.

I remembered money. Wouldn't it have been nice if I'd had some?

"Do you know Lord Húrin's housekeeper Narbeleth?" I asked hopefully. Minas Tirith wasn't the biggest of cities—maybe they'd been friends for decades.

"Narbeleth? Hah!" he sniffed.

So that was a no-go. I was about to walk down to the first level to find out whether the open-air markets had started up again when a group of boys intersected with me. I didn't see Bergil or Elric, but I recognized Rhîw and Findegil.

"We saw on the slateboard that you were looking for honey," Findegil told me.

"I sure am! If you've got some, I can promise you oatmeal cookies in exchange."

Rhîw held up a copper pail filled with a fresh honeycomb leaking honey. "You said that it was important, so I went off and found some for you."

After peering inside, I said thoughtfully, "Do I really want to know where this came from?"

Rhîw pulled down his lower lip and looked embarrassed. "Ummm…perhaps not."

Somebody would have to keep an eye on that boy. When he grew up, he'd either be a Great Detective or a Napoleon of Crime. But that was a problem for another day. I gratefully accepted the honey and toted it back to the kitchen. Narbeleth set to work baking cookies and feeding them to appreciative boys, and for awhile, she was happy.

The very next day, Bergil and Elric burst pell-mell into the kitchen, waving their arms and shouting.

"The Riders have returned! The Riders have returned!" exclaimed Elric.

Equally excited, Bergil added, "Maybe Daddy is riding with them."

Without another word I tossed down my dishtowel, and Narbeleth and I ran after them to the first level. The whole area around the broken Gate—inside and out—was packed. Soldiers and civilians alike, everyone was waiting to greet the men who were coming home.

"Ioreth has found herself a place up front," Narbeleth pointed out to me. You couldn't miss Ioreth—she was standing on a staircase halfway up to somebody's balcony and her headscarf was crowned with three showy purple flowers. Narbeleth and I elbowed our way over to join her, with Bergil and Elric right behind.

"What have I missed?" I asked Ioreth, searching the crowd with my eyes. From the staircase we had a great view over the heads of the crowd. Éowyn and Prince Faramir were outside the Gate under an awning set up for VIPs. I would have needed a spear to get through that crowd to them, and its point would have had to be sharp.

Ioreth pointed with one pudgy finger. "Look! Look down the road! There they are!"

I looked where she was pointing, and I saw horses and banners and glittering armor. Everyone in the crowd started to shout and yell. Our side had won the battle against Sauron. The Army of the West was returning!

I think that was the first moment I really believed that the war was over.

When they got closer it was clear that we weren't seeing the full Army. It was an advance force of cavalry, and Lord Aragorn was riding at the front. Splendid in silver and black, he swung down from his warhorse in front of the Gate and shouted in a voice that we all heard, "Sauron is no more! The Free Peoples are victorious!"

The crowd parted to let Prince Faramir approach Aragorn. He held out what seemed to be a big shiny helmet with wings on it and proclaimed loudly, "Men of Gondor, here is Aragorn, Captain of the Host of the West and Heir of Isildur. Shall he enter the city as our King?"

His proclamation was actually a lot longer, but I lost interest about halfway through. A procession of Elves was coming up behind Aragorn and they were carrying a little palinquin, as softly as a baby's cradle, that was covered by a canopy of blue elven cloaks. I didn't need a palantír to know who was inside.

"It's Frodo!" I hissed to our group on the staircase. "The Elves are bringing back Frodo and Sam!"

"Who are Frodo and Sam?" Ioreth asked with a puzzled expression.

"Just the most important people in the whole War! Frodo and Sam are the Ring-bearer and his companion. They threw Sauron's Ring of Power into the Crack of Doom and destroyed the Dark Lord!"

Nonplussed, Ioreth actually fell silent for a change, then gasped, "It cannot be true!"

"It **is** true! It is! " Jumping up and down on the steps, I screamed at the top of my lungs, "Frodo! Sam! FRODO! SAM! **FRODO! FRODO! FRODO!"**

And Elric and Bergil started to shout too! When they heard us yelling, the people on the balcony above us also started to shout, "Frodo! Sam! Frodo!" although I'm sure they had no idea who Frodo and Sam were. They must have been caught up in the excitement.

My impromptu altercation may have disrupted the scenario a little bit, because Lord Aragorn picked up on what we were shouting. To the immense astonishment of everyone around him, the sharp-eared Ranger waved away the crown and declared, "By the labor and valor of many I come into my inheritance. In honor of this, I shall wait to be crowned until all the brave soldiers of Gondor return home. Moreover, I would have the Ring-bearer bring the crown to me and I would have Gandalf set it upon my head."

After that the people yelled even louder. Some of them yelled, "Lord Aragorn!" and some yelled, "The King Returned!" Some even yelled "Captain Thorongil!" because that's the nom de guerre that Aragorn used in Minas Tirith decades earlier when he fought pirates for Denethor's father.

In the end, it was 'Captain Thorongil' who rode into the city—at any rate, it was the victorious Captain of Gondor. It seemed to me like giving Zorro a ticker-tape parade down the streets of Los Angeles, but hey, if it made the Gondorians happy…

About halfway through the procession, Bergil shrieked and clutched my sleeve. His father Beregond was riding a warhorse of Rohan in the middle of the column, and what's more, Pippin was sitting behind him.

When Bergil shouted, "Daddy! Daddy!" Beregond looked up and smiled at him. It was such a sad smile that it nearly broke my heart to see it. Then he rode into the White City with the rest of the company.


	33. A Portia Come to Judgement

**Usual disclaimers and thanks**: Nothing is mine, etc., etc.

Thanks to my betas, eekfrenzy and Rose—and thanks also to my reviewers.

Reviews are my only reward. I like them a lot.

If you've read the trilogy, you'll recall that Beregond was put on trial for killing a man and deserting his post in his attempt to save Faramir. His role was cut to about 20 seconds in the movie but he's back into hot water again in my story.

_toolazy:_ I put in the hunt for honey because in real life, everything can't be a cosmic adventure.

_S:_ I think you'll agree—it would have been a dereliction of duty for Faramir to let Barbarella run loose! She's no Warrior Princess but she's getting proficient with the weapons that women have mainly had to use throughout most of human history—dissimulation, soft words, and guile.

I fixed the missing word. You're good at catching typos—but I think I'm pretty good at it too.

_Sammy Holzbein_: Yeah, Faramir is a nice guy—but rules are rules.

_cjsl8ne: _In Tolkien's book, the heroism of Frodo and Sam were not much applauded in Gondor. More so in the movie, although they were all pretty embarrassed about it. But unlike Tolkien, I'm not writing high fantasy—so I can put in applause if I like.

**Chapter 33 A Portia Come to Judgement**

The whole city pretty much went nuts after that, of course. The military maintained its discipline, but for us civilians it was total chaos. Nobody knew what was going on, what we ought to be doing next, or who to bring questions to. For a while, Éowyn tried to find Prince Faramir so he could set up a chain of command, but he must have sloped off somewhere with Aragorn.

Éowyn and I decided to check through the Riders of Rohan to find out which men needed to be sent to the Houses of Healing. Some had broken bones or hastily-bandaged wounds, and we did send up a few who had signs of concussion, but for the most part, the men with more serious injuries must have remained with the main force. I sure hoped that the Combined Army had taken along some field medics!

Later that same day I was on a quest for clean sheets in the Houses of Healing when I was accosted by—of all people!—Legolas. He was leaning on the wall next to the main staircase watching the people go by, and he was wearing the cutest little white tunic. "Barbarella! Where have you been? Frodo and Sam wish to speak to you."

Frodo and Sam wanted to see ME?

I gave my hair a quick pat and scurried after him. Somebody had placed Frodo in the executive wing of the Houses of Healing down the corridor from Faramir's old suite, and Frodo's hospital room was so airy and cheerful that I almost couldn't believe it. Throughout most of the War the elements themselves had seemed to conspire to bring down our spirits, but here the afternoon sun was shining past the curtains to make the room bright and cheery.

There they all were, the whole Fellowship of the Ring. The four hobbits—Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin—Gandalf and Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli. Gimli the Dwarf was smoking a pipe, which I wouldn't have tolerated if this had been my hospital. When Merry spotted me in the doorway, he yelled, "I was right, Barbarella—it was Eagles!"

Only we two had any idea what he was talking about.

Then Sam exclaimed, "Mister Frodo! Mister Frodo! Look—it's Barbarella!"

Frodo's small hobbit body seemed lost and tiny in that big bed, and his head lolled weakly on the white pillows. His face was waxy and his eyes looked dark and smudged and he was terribly, terribly thin. Right beside him, his friend Sam was sitting on a chair, one foot bandaged and propped up on a stool.

Frodo clutched the bedcovers with trembling fingers and said with a wavering smile, "We did it, Barbarella-we did it! And I didn't even have to die…"

Everyone stopped talking and laughing, and I suddenly felt a sense of foreboding. Frodo had gone through too much for too long. Exhaustion. Hunger and Thirst. Wounds. Terror. And the One Ring whispering in his head for weeks and weeks. How could anyone hope to recover from that?

Well, there was always hope. Maybe with lots and lots of therapy…

At long last, I was able to offer to the heroes of the hour (of the millennium!) a greeting with a little more panache than 'Hi Frodo.' "Mister Baggins, Mister Gamgee, I'm Barbarella Sanderson, and I'm very proud to meet you in the flesh."

Frodo's blue eyes searched the room. "But where is the Elf Lady? Sam and I wish to see her too."

What could I say? I didn't have the heart to tell Frodo that the Elf Lady had died.

Gandalf answered for me. "She has gone to the West, Frodo. For the great power that Serindë wielded, she paid a great price. Her physical body was drained by the enchantment."

Frodo looked stricken, but the expression on Sam's face was more angry than sorrowful. "She went to the West. You mean that she died?"

Gandalf nodded solemnly.

"What does that mean, Gandalf?" Sam demanded. "When Galadriel sent the Elf Lady to help us, did she know from the very beginning that Serindë was going to die?"

I had a hunch that Sam wasn't just thinking about Serindë. He must have been wondering whether Galadriel had thought the same thing about Frodo. But in this case, at least, I could defend her.

"No, she didn't, Sam. As a matter of fact, Galadriel didn't send Serindë to you at all," I explained. "What Serindë did, she did of her own free will, even though she knew that it would cause her death."

Sam's question was simple. "Why?"

"Because everything that mattered to Serindë, the Shadow took. First her Elf city was overwhelmed by the hosts of Morgoth, and then the Princess whom she honored and served was tortured by Sauron's orcs. After that she would have paid any price to destroy Sauron, because the fact is, Gondolin and Celebrían were as dear to her as the Shire and Frodo are dear to you."

Sam had to think about that for a bit. He wasn't a warrior raised in some Middle-earth code of bushido; he was a plain working-class hobbit right down to the calluses on his hands and the suspenders on his pants. So he sat and he worked it out and finally he said, "I understand—and I'm glad for her. I would have done the same thing myself."

Except for Frodo, who sighed, "Oh, Sam," nobody had anything to say for a while. But then Aragorn stepped forward and said to Sam, "For many years, my Rangers and I watched over the Shire and guarded the hobbits who dwell there, but I see now that I never knew you."

Sam leaned down and scratched at his foot-bandage. "Something o' that."

In the stillness that followed, Gandalf gave me a sharp look. "You should have asked for counsel before you acted so rashly, Barbarella. If Sauron had touched your mind, he would have seen all that you knew about the Ring-Quest. You could have put Frodo in peril."

Asked for counsel? From Gandalf? Like Serindë would have put up with that for a second! I was going to babble about all the fail-safes we'd set up and the contingency plans that Serindë had made and weasel out at the end by saying that it had been all been her idea anyway—but I thought to myself, no.

"But it is done," I said, and let it go at that. It's what Serindë would have wanted me to say.

Before I left the Fellowship to their male bonding, there was one last thing that I needed to do. Lord Aragorn was walking and talking and unquestionably alive, so I pulled off the scarf that I'd knotted around my neck and unpinned the battered envelope tucked into its folds. Holding it out to Aragorn, I said quietly, "Your letter."

For this occasion Lord Aragorn was wearing a long burgundy robe that had a truly gigantic emerald collar stud. He accepted the envelope from my hand and stuffed it into one of the pockets in the robe without even looking to see whether it had been opened. "Thank you for keeping it safe while I was gone."

"No problem. Thanks for going."

No matter who I asked, nobody seemed to know what they'd done with Beregond. I looked high and low, but I couldn't find him. Just when I was beginning to get scared, Bergil was told by one of his buddies that his father had been clapped into a cell at Tower Guard HQ.

Well, he hadn't been there when I'd checked earlier in the day.

Narbeleth and I went immediately to see him. She absolutely refused to let Bergil go with us, but we promised we'd tell him everything as soon as we got back. Getting past the tunnel guard to the seventh level was a bit of a hassle without my diplomatic medallion, but Narbeleth is very proficient at hassling.

Up the stairs, past the fountain, through the Plaza of the Dead Tree. When we got to Tower Guard HQ it was almost deserted, but there were two Tower Guards shuffling wax memo tablets at a marble table near the entrance. One was stout and grey-haired, with an officer's insignia. The other was older and nearly as bald as Mornacollo. A third man in ranger green was standing and watching what the other two were doing. There was a sling on his right arm and a bandage on his forehead, so I assumed he'd been wounded in the battle.

When we approached the entry table the two Tower Guards didn't look up until Narbeleth rapped out, "I want to see my son Beregond."

The fat officer pursed his lips doubtfully. "I cannot allow that. He is a Citadel prisoner awaiting judgement from the military tribunal."

I was about to yell at him, but the Ranger beat me to it. He slammed the memo tablet he was holding onto the marble table and said icily, "The Tower Guard has made some very poor decisions recently. I think that refusing simple courtesy to a comrade would be yet another."

And the officer actually backslid and agreed! Narbeleth and I exchanged curious glances—had we found ourselves an ally? I found out later that the Ranger's name was Damrod. He was one of Prince Faramir's Ithilien Rangers, so it was easy to see where his loyalties would lie!

The old soldier walked us down the corridor to where they were keeping Beregond. It wasn't a dungeon—just a little row of holding cells. I peeked through the bars in the window and saw that the cell wasn't even as nice as my washhouse back in Edoras. The walls and floor were cold white stone and the only furnishings were a bench and a bucket.

When our escort unlocked the cell door, Beregond jumped to his feet in surprise. "Mother—Barbarella! The two of you should not have come here! You cannot enter into my cell."

Naturally we ignored this. Surprising Beregond once again, Narbeleth pulled an oatmeal cookie out of her carry-bag and shoved it into his hand. As he put it into his mouth and mechanically chewed, she did a quick eyeball inventory of his important body parts. Beregond was somewhat battered, with the scrapes and bruises that every warrior gets in battle even if he isn't wounded, but other than that, he seemed okay.

"Well," Narbeleth said, "at least you came back in one piece from the Black Gate."

"I fought honorably for Gondor, Mother," Beregond said earnestly. "You can always remember that."

He was giving away the game before it even started! I said to him sternly, "I want to speak for you at your trial, Beregond."

"What would be the point? I am guilty!"

"But I want to help. I owe you, remember, and I've got a plan."

"You should let Barbarella speak for you, son," Narbeleth told him. "Is she not the Counsellor of the Princess of Rohan? Do you not bear the blood of Rohan in your veins? Give her a chance—she has not failed yet."

From Narbeleth, that was pretty close to the Seal of Approval.

"I would not wish to bring trouble to her," Beregond said wretchedly.

Narbeleth snorted. "Why not? The girl lives for trouble."

And that, ultimately, was that. Beregond is not the kind of guy who could disobey his mother.

Beregond's trial—if you want to call it that—came up quickly and quietly. I might not have found out about it until too late, except that Ioreth, who hears all the gossip, dropped a word into Narbeleth's ear. Ioreth actually had been Narbeleth's friend for decades, so she was on our side 100%. Also, the women of Lossarnach stick together.

According to her contacts on the seventh level, the captains of the Army of the West had demanded a military tribunal to try crimes committed during the march to the Black Gate. That tribunal would probably sweep up Beregond too.

"Can you take me to where they're holding it?" I asked Ioreth.

Ioreth frowned for a moment. "It will be in the White Tower, of course. I can get you as far as the door of the tribunal chamber, but I cannot get you inside. My credentials as a healer will be of no use there."

I would have to settle for that. We headed off so fast that I didn't even have time to tell Princess Éowyn what I was doing. This was getting to be a bad habit.

I sure did miss my diplomatic medallion! But as a well-known healer, Ioreth was able to get us through the tunnel without an argument from the guards. We slipped into the Tower through a side door that I'd missed somehow in my earlier adventures, and then sneaked toward the Tower Hall until we heard loud angry voices from one of the larger conference rooms.

"This is as far as I can go," Ioreth whispered. "I can help you no more."

"I'll take it from here, Ioreth. Thanks a bunch."

The door was ajar, so I peeked into a conference room that was richly furnished with white marble and burgundy wall hangings—and crammed with soldiers. Lord Aragorn was seated in a high-backed chair at the marble-topped table that dominated the room. There were other men sitting further down the table, but their chairs were not as tall. In Minas Tirith there's always a Highest Chair.

With an edge to his voice, Aragorn was concluding, "Then we are agreed? Those soldiers who faithfully guarded the bridge, even though they turned away from the Black Gate, shall be released without penalty."

There was a lot of angry mumbling, and then the voice of Éomer rang out. "I say, 'Aye.' The war is over, let the battle be done."

"Release them, then. What is next for us to deal with?" Lord Aragorn pressed his ring to a parchment and passed it down to the other men at the table. I recognized most of them—Prince Éomer, Lord Húrin, and Prince Faramir—but there was one dark-haired noble that I didn't recognize who was wearing a blue cloak embroidered with white wings.

The sound of voices rose in the conference room and a shabby group of soldiers filed past me through the doorway. Most of them were shaking and pale, and one was even crying—but his tears were tears of joy. They'd been spared from the punishment they all must have expected. Not everyone believed in mercy, though. Out of Aragorn's sight, the captain who was escorting the prisoners had such an expression of rage on his face that he looked like the Witch-King with skin.

As the group of soldiers passed by me, Beregond entered the conference room through a side door in the custody of his commanding officer. He looked positively disheveled—I itched to comb that hair. Captain Ascar brought him forward and announced, "Lord Aragorn, I bring you Beregond, a soldier in the Third Company of the Citadel, to be judged. By this man's sword the blood of his comrades was spilled."

Lord Húrin stood up and said to the Highest Chair, "Lord Aragorn, this is not a matter that touches upon the discipline of the Combined Army. Prince Faramir and I have a personal interest in this case, so I recommend that you resolve it without our counsel."

There was no time to lose! I darted inside—and ran smack into the Ranger from Tower Guard HQ. Like Aragorn, he appeared out of nowhere in front of me! "What is your business here, Barbarella?"

Struck by a sudden inspiration, I pulled Serindë's compact out of my belt-pouch, held it up, and mouthed the words, 'message for Lord Aragorn.' Damrod could have held me easily, but he didn't try to stop me. Jerking away from his grasp, I threaded my way through the crowd toward the conference table.

"Lord Aragorn! I come to speak on this man's behalf!"


	34. Breaking Point

**Usual disclaimers and thanks**: Nothing is mine, etc., etc.

Thanks to my betas, eekfrenzy and Rose—and thanks also to my reviewers.

Reviews are my only reward. I like them a lot.

Within two months Barbarella has been faced with violent death five times (Gríma, orc ambushers, the Wall, Saruman, and killer pterodactyls). That sort of thing has to have an impact. For one thing, she's grown somewhat accustomed to taking risks that we'd consider crazy.

_Sammy Holzbein_: I hadn't visualized Narbeleth as an 'Italian mother' but the Minas Tirith climate and clothing is very Mediterranean so it makes sense! Barbarella is an outsider who really hasn't acquiesced to Middle-earth 'rule and authority'—except for her boss Princess Éowyn. She knows that the local guys can kill or imprison her but she hasn't been indoctrinated into obedience.

_midorimouse7_: Barbarella is 'only a girl' but she's got a lot of chutzpah. And yes, she also has connections. It's pretty rare for OFCs to have female friends—especially older women, who are practically invisible in fanfic. I like to stick them in because one day I'll be a little old lady myself.

_MorganMDW:_ I'm glad you're still reading my story. It's been a long road, hasn't it? I intend to start another LOTR story after this one is done. It'll be different in many ways but still from my own unique perspective.

**Chapter 34 Breaking Point**

Aragorn actually seemed to smile when he saw me coming. I guess I was a nice change from Gondorian officers. He looked down the table at his four counsellors and announced, "As I have been advised, I shall pronounce judgement on this man myself."

Meanwhile, his counsellors were all staring at me. Éomer in particular seemed pretty P.O.'ed. The nobleman in the blue cloak was the only one who seemed cool about it. I learned later that he was Prince Imrahil, and that his daughter was a handful.

I took my place at Beregond's side, looked up into the face of a man I'd met only a few days earlier, and asked him if he was willing to put his capital trial into my hands. "Is this all right with you, Beregond?"

Beregond smiled down at me trustingly. "Oh, yes."

Okay, then. It's not like this was an unfamiliar situation for me. I had my big speech all ready, and it was a speech prepared chapter and verse by someone whose words even Lord Aragorn would have to accept.

Before I could speak, Aragorn managed to surprise me again. Eyes twinkling with laughter, he asked, "But Barbarella, what do you know about the law of Gondor?"

I heard several poorly stifled gasps. Everyone else in the room must have thought that Beregond was a goner, but I knew that he wasn't. If Aragorn was twitting me about what I'd asked him before my own trial, then Beregond was okay. Aragorn is too nice a guy to joke about somebody else's trouble.

Okay, I'd go with the flow. "Not much—but I've read law books in the incomparable Minas Tirith Hall of Records."

The law of Gondor was not a laughing matter, so Aragorn's voice grew more solemn. "Then you must know that for the things Beregond has done, in olden times death was the penalty."

I shot back with my big speech. "Does the intent of the defendant count for nothing in the law of Gondor? Beregond had no desire to kill; he wanted to save the life of Prince Faramir. As a very wise Ranger once said, 'enough blood has already been spilled.' Will you not spare him, Lord Aragorn?"

I could have said more, but I didn't want to show my hole card until I had to.

Aragorn directed his 'look of eagles' at me, at Beregond, and at all of his counsellors along the table—especially Prince Faramir. He steepled his hands and stared hard at Beregond. "Beregond, come forward. I am ready to pronounce judgement."

What! It couldn't be over already! I'd barely had a chance to say anything!

Beregond's face was chalk-white but he stepped forward as he'd been ordered.

The chamber was very quiet as Aragorn proclaimed, "All penalty for your crime is remitted because of your valor in battle at the Black Gate and because what you did, you did to save the life of Prince Faramir. Nevertheless, you must now quit the guard of the Citadel and leave the city of Minas Tirith."

It was my turn to gasp. What kind of mercy was this?

In a more compassionate voice, Aragorn continued, "Beregond, as a captain of the new White Company of Ithilien, you shall dwell in its hills and serve Prince Faramir, whom you saved from death. For when I am King, Ithilien shall be his princedom, since he has guarded that land so long and so valiantly."

Beregond flushed red and began to stammer thanks. His life had been spared, he'd received great honor from the King Returned, he'd even gotten a promotion. I wasn't so happy. How could Aragorn have exiled Beregond from the city in which he was born and separated him from the people he knew and loved? Beregond would have to spend the rest of his life away from home in a strange, empty land scarred by war.

Of course, he would also get serve his Prince in that land forever. I guess when you put it that way, I could see the appeal.

His judgement proclaimed, Beregond skedaddled toward the door. Captain Ascar didn't know what to do with him, so he let him go. I was about to follow when Aragorn crooked a finger at me. Obediently, I stepped up to his High Chair and raised my chin so I could meet his eyes.

Sotto voce, Aragorn said, "Indulge my curiosity, Barbarella. From one advocate to another, what defense had you planned to present?"

At this point it couldn't hurt anything for him to know. I answered in an equally low voice, "One of the books in the Hall of Records states that after the overthrow of Castamir the Usurper, King Eldacar proclaimed that no man of noble birth could lawfully be put to death unless his crimes and the name of the one who condemned him were first announced publicly to the people."

Putting it together, Aragorn frowned. "So you would have claimed that the men of the Tower Guard were acting unlawfully and that in fact, Lord Denethor was murdering his own son."

"According to the law of King Eldacar," I pointed out helpfully.

Aragorn ran one thumb thoughtfully over his beard. "That would have caused this city a great deal of trouble."

And what did I say to that? I must have gone crazy or something, because I snorted, "Trouble? Pfffttt! I saw my Princess struck down by the Witch-King of Angmar. I watched Frodo struggle with the One Ring at the Crack of Doom! **That** was trouble, Aragorn. Anything less is an inconvenience."

After I told him that, I slapped my palms down onto that marble table and started to giggle hysterically. I laughed and I sobbed and I cried and I just couldn't stop. When I finally ran down I could barely breathe, my nose was running, and my face must have been red as a beet.

I looked like a mess and I'd made a fool of myself in front of the biggest nobles in the city.

Aragorn didn't act at all surprised. In fact, he seemed to understand exactly what had happened. He gently wiped my eyes and nose—with my own scarf!—and said, "I am too old a campaigner to meddle with a woman who is waving the bloody shirt. That responsibility I shall leave to brave Captain Beregond. You are war-weary, Barbarella. Go now and rest. Be quiet for a time—if that is possible."

At least he hadn't clapped me in irons for lèse majesté. I hastily backed away. When I'd gone a few steps I noticed that the crowd was beginning to thin, so it wasn't hard to work my way out the door. As I was walking down the corridor it occurred to me that Faramir had told me that he would let Lord Aragorn handle my little peccadilloes. Now Aragorn was saying that he'd leave me to Captain Beregond.

Great! Beregond I could handle.

Next, I had to confess to Éowyn what I'd been up to. Oh, the shrieks, the handwringing, the recriminations! That was my reaction. Princess Éowyn was actually pretty cool with it.

"You were right to do what you did, for Beregond risked his life and his honor to aid you. An obligation like that has no limit."

"I know. I was just lucky that Lord Aragorn let me speak for him."

We were holed up in her bedroom in the Houses of Healing. Éowyn didn't need any more healing, but it was almost impossible to find living quarters in the White City. The Old Guesthouse was packed full of boys.

"One thing in your story puzzles me," Éowyn said with a look of curiosity. "How did you get that Ranger to let you through into the tribunal?"

In answer, I flipped open Serindë's compact. "A mirror looks a lot like a message-tablet if you only see it for a second."

Éowyn's face was incredulous for a moment and then she hugged me tight. "Oh, Barbarella, I don't ever want to lose you!"

I nestled my face into her shoulder and mumbled, "Same here."

It was good to be home.

After letting go of my waist, Éowyn commented, "So Faramir is to be Prince of Ithilien. That is a princely gift indeed. Parts of that land should be good horse country, don't you think?"

"I suppose so."

I could definitely foresee the Little House on the Prairie in my future.

From then, Minas Tirith held its breath in anticipation of the coronation. Everybody was sitting and waiting except for the soldiers on guard, the clean-up crews—and me.

Beregond, that obedient soldier, departed from the White City the same day that Lord Aragorn proclaimed his sentence. Since he had nowhere to go until his new orders came through, he wound up bunking in the barracks of the Harlond Port Authority.

Because Beregond was away from home, somebody else had to get his household ready for the upcoming move and pack all of his belongings. His mother was working nonstop to prepare Lord Húrin's mansion for the big blow-out, so I took over the job. (I didn't really have to tell you that, did I?) Neither Beregond nor his son Bergil owned much stuff, but that meant that I had to be extra-careful with the few things they did have.

The whole city was going crazy with plans and preparations as the Big Day approached. Everybody had been invited to the seventh level to watch the coronation. When I heard about the 'everybody' part, I decided to ask Prince Faramir (the non-Ruling Steward) whether Beregond could come too.

He was going out to breakfast with Princess Éowyn when I collared him. "Prince Faramir! Surely Captain Beregond should be allowed to see the Return of the King! Can he attend the King's coronation?"

Faramir stopped dead in his tracks. He knew as well as I did that he might not be witnessing the coronation himself if it hadn't been for Beregond. Still, the law was the law. "Lord Aragorn stated in his judgement that Beregond must leave the city."

"He was told to leave, not to stay away forever. And this coronation is a once-in-a-lifetime event."

Meanwhile, Éowyn was looking at him with big blue eyes that seemed to be saying, 'Surely you will not turn down my beloved Counsellor!'

Prince Faramir sighed. "You are correct about the importance of the event. Even pickpockets are being removed from their cells to witness the crowning of the King."

"Pickpockets?" I gasped. "You're letting pickpockets work the Coronation crowd?"

"They will be under guard, of course," he quickly assured me. "Very well, I shall authorize Captain Beregond to attend the coronation—on one condition. He must be discreet."

"His Tower Guard uniform is right out, I guess?" I said in mock sorrow.

Prince Faramir answered firmly, "I will have him sent the garb of a Ranger of Ithilien. See that he wears it."

As soon as Faramir gave his agreement, Princess Éowyn tugged at his arm and they went off to breakfast.

I seemed to recall that Ithilien Rangers wore dark cloaks with hoods. That would come in handy to disguise a blond like Beregond.


	35. Almost Happily Ever After

**Usual disclaimers and thanks**: Nothing is mine, etc., etc.

Thanks to my betas, eekfrenzy and Rose—and thanks also to my reviewers.

Reviews are my only reward. I like them a lot.

We're nearly at the end of Barbarella's story and it is really going to hurt me to finally bid her farewell. Of course, I will probably still reread _Misfit_ incessantly… I'm starting another LOTR story, though—but more of that anon…(THIS time I think I know how to put in lines for scene breaks!)

_cjsl8ne_: The trial would have been very different if Aragorn hadn't kidded with Barbarella—she would have brought out her big guns if she hadn't been sure that he planned to spare Beregond. You're going to see the coronation—but Barbarella isn't going to witness Faramir's proposal. He's brave, but he's not that brave.

_Sammy Holzbein_: I take your comment that the chapter seems rushed very seriously—but it's hard to know how to answer it. If what you mean is the trial scene—it's more or less from the book, and Tolkien certainly didn't spend a lot of time on it. As far as this story goes, Barbarella was willing to shut her mouth and take 'yes' for an answer.

_midorimouse7_: No, Barbarella didn't need to use her 'mad attorney' skills, but Aragorn now knows she has them! Kind of a win/win there. To give Éomer his due, he's afraid that knowing Barbarellat might endanger his sister—and it does! Éowyn threw herself into the path of a Wizard's blast to save her—and she wouldn't have gone off on her own to Gondor without Barbarella's encouragement.

_ShyWriter413_: I would like to think that despite all her crazy adventures, Barbarella remains ultimately possible. That in a desperate, dangerous crisis, a normal American young woman could summon up the necessary strength and intelligence and bravery, and in short, become a Sam Gamgee.

**Chapter 35 Almost Happily Ever After**

Aragorn's coronation was scheduled for high noon on the first day of Lótessë—or May, as we say in the States. Beregond and I had been corresponding back and forth about how his family was doing, the packing project, and what we thought was likely to happen next. We'd agreed to go to the coronation together, along with Bergil and Elric. Wise in the ways of festival seating, I wrote to him that we needed to show up in seventh level not much later than dawn.

Well before daybreak on the day of the coronation, Éowyn and I heard an awful racket outside our window. Beregond had ridden up to the city in a pre-dawn grocery cart with a quartet of rowdy stevedores. The big blond Northmen must have started celebrating early—they were hooting and yelling and banging metal canisters and making a ruckus. Compared to those guys Beregond seemed utterly discreet, not to mention short and spindly. But he was still cuter, especially in his new Ranger clothes.

For once Éowyn had intended to sleep in, so she was really ticked off about the noise. Faramir had invited her to see the coronation from the porch of his brother's apartment, catty-corner to the Citadel, so she didn't need to wake up early. While she was yelling, "Stop that racket!" at the stevedores, I skinned into my green linen dress and the fancy black surcoat with silver piping, and ran downstairs to the break room to pick up Bergil and Elric. Then the three of us went out to meet Beregond.

I'd been right about the festival seating—vultures were already circling the Place of the Fountain looking for the best spots to stand. I pointed out a place that seemed 'discreet' to me—the concrete platform overhanging the tunnel staircase. Our stevedores found a broken marble column and shoved it over as a mini-bleacher, then sauntered off to see the sights of the seventh level.

By noon the Citadel doors had still not opened up and both the Courtyard of the Fountain and the embrasure over the shiprock were as packed as a Metro bus at rush hour. Whenever Beregond and I took our eyes off Bergil and Elric for a second, the two restless kids would try to clamber onto the retaining wall of the tunnel. I can't say that I much blamed them. Bored now, definitely.

I was beginning to feel faint, so Beregond passed me his waterskin and told me to watch the kids, then pushed through the crowd to find us something to eat. He came back after awhile with food that he'd bought from a street vendor: fish and chips in palm leaves. The fish could have used a little salt and I think the chips were parsnips, but seasoned by hunger, they were delicious.

As I was wiping my greasy fingers with the palm leaves, Beregond said almost off-handedly, "Oh, I almost forgot. I bought you something from a foreign trader down at the Harlond docks."

Whatever it was, it was all wrapped up in muslin. I opened my present and discovered that it was a silk scarf striped in dark metallic green and brilliant periwinkle blue. If I had to guess, I would say that it came from the Middle-earth equivalent of India—it had the look, complete with the brass sequins and trailing fringe.

"Wow, it isn't black!" I exclaimed. "This is great—it's the sort of thing that my Mom would wear!"

Beregond's face fell. Whatever local custom my present was fulfilling, it definitely wasn't a 'teacher gift.' I added hastily, "No, no, it's wonderful, Beregond. My mother is the one in my family who wears the bright clothes—I've always been pretty mundane."

I immediately put on the scarf over my hair to show that I liked it. As I tucked in the few last strands, Beregond said, "I wish that I could show you Minas Tirith after the rubble is cleared. You would see what a beautiful city it can be. But I have seen Ithilien and I can assure you that it is also lovely."

I tried to imagine Beregond and Bergil living in a sod house on the prairie. It was a sad thought.

After a while he asked, "If Princess Éowyn marries Prince Faramir and goes to live in Ithilien, will you remain here or will you return to Rohan?"

That was a no-brainer.

"Whichever way it goes, I stay with my Princess. I'm not a woman of Rohan—without her there would be nothing for me there." I qualified that after a few seconds. "There are people in Edoras that I'll miss, but I have people in Minas Tirith that I care about too."

There was a long silence as Beregond digested my statement. Staring fixedly at the White Tower, he finally ventured, "And would Bergil and I be among those people?"

"Well, of course you…" My voice trailed off and I felt my cheeks reddening. That was no casual question.

Hit me with a two-by-four, why don't you? How had we gotten to this stage without me noticing? And what did I want to say to him?

The coronation crowd of the King Returned was not the ideal place to discuss our relationship. Before either of us had enough time to die of embarrassment, the Great Doors of the White Tower swung open and Gandalf and Lord Aragorn appeared on the top steps. Aragorn was wearing shining armor and looked pretty impressive. From the crowd around us I heard a breathless 'ooooo.'

For a little while Lord Aragorn stood surveying the people—the people he was going to rule. I may be projecting a bit, but I think the whole 'King' thing was beginning to sink in and he was wondering, 'Did I really volunteer for this?'

Gandalf made a slight gesture, and Frodo mounted the steps with the big winged helmet that was really a mithril crown. He delivered it to Gandalf and then quickly backed away out of sight. Lord Aragorn went down on one knee on the steps and Gandalf smiled at him proudly—as well he might! Then the Wizard slowly and deliberately lowered the winged crown onto Aragorn's head.

After a thousand years, Gondor had a King again. Everyone from Merethond to the far wall of the embrasure cheered as loudly as they could. Faramir and Éowyn, who had moved into the Courtyard of the Fountain, were smiling and clapping. Beregond grabbed my hand and we applauded together.

Aragorn—King Elessar, rather—was announcing something that was drowned out by the cheers. When the noise died down, the King sang to us a capella. An Elf song! I will say no more.

Since our little group was standing directly over the staircase, I was among the first to notice when a procession of Elves—led by Legolas himself!—emerged from the tunnel. As Legolas came up to embrace the new King, Aragorn suddenly realized that the Elf lady half-hidden by a white banner was his true love, Arwen. It had to be Arwen because the King grabbed her and gave her a great big kiss!

Arwen must have felt a little flustered about being kissed like that in public, but she smiled radiantly at the people of Minas Tirith as she strolled alongside the King. The crowd parted and I saw our four hobbits next to the fountain, all dressed in their best clothes. Frodo started to bow to the new King, but then Elessar said something so loudly that nothing could have drowned him out:

"My friends! You bow to no one!"

In an act of royal dignity that reminded me of Théoden King at Helm's Deep, King Elessar knelt in front of the hobbits. Arwen knelt down beside him, and everyone in the crowd followed their example until the entire courtyard was kneeling in homage to the four hobbits who had saved us all.

As Beregond and I were kneeling with the rest, I spotted Lord Húrin on his knees a few feet away from Éowyn and Faramir. I caught his eye and gave him a significant nod. He looked startled for an instant, and then nodded back

Tell me now, sir, about the worth of two hobbits!

In the shadows of one of the open-air stone cupolas, I saw a man who wasn't kneeling. It was hard to make out his face out in the dark, but he looked somewhat familiar. I squinted hard and finally recognized Lord Elrond of Rivendell. He must have come all the way to Minas Tirith to be with his daughter. He wasn't kneeling, though. No, of course he wasn't.

I looked again and saw somebody else standing beside Lord Elrond—somebody who was a little shorter, a little thinner, and whose arms and legs were concealed by long sleeves and floppy pants. When that somebody looked up, I saw fearless blue eyes shining out of a pink, puffy face.

Fréalof! It was Elric's younger brother Fréalof! He was scarred from his terrible burns, the burns that would have killed him, but he was alive! I elbowed Elric and pointed out his brother, then clapped my hands over his mouth to muffle his joyous shriek.

My greatest wish on Middle-earth had come true.

So the War had been won, the King was crowned, and the boy got the girl. This would be a fine place to end a heroic saga—for all I know, that's where Tolkien did end it. But it's not where my story ends.

As soon as Aragorn was crowned King, the White City came alive again and started to work furiously—mending, making, building, even buying and selling, because once the crisis was over, the scumbag importers who'd deserted us finally showed up and filled the shops with goods. Everyone was so busy that in all the hubbub, I couldn't even track down Lord Elrond to find out where he'd stashed Fréalof.

A couple of weeks later—five eventful months after I'd woken on the plains of Rohan—the King proclaimed that there would be an outdoor event on the slopes of Mount Mindolluin to celebrate our great victory and to allow the citizens of Minas Tirith to meet their King. We would bring whatever food we wished to eat and the King would supply the beer.

As I said to Éowyn, it sounded like a picnic to me. It also sounded like Aragorn was already getting wistful for those freer, simpler days when he was just a scruffy Ranger. You don't have to put on your best duds to hike up a mountain.

On the day of the picnic Éowyn was dressed in her best clothes—the brown wool with gold trim—but that was okay, because I'd packed sensibly for her. I was wearing my green linen again. Ironically, the jewelry I had was as fine as any in the city—but I didn't dare show it.

Faramir had invited Éowyn to attend the picnic with him, so all six of us trooped up the mountain together. Prince Faramir and Princess Éowyn, Beregond and me, and the two kids, Bergil and Elric. En masse, we looked like a family outing. Elric was wearing his new linen tunic and trousers, and I could only pray that he'd keep them clean for at least a while.

On the path above and below us, hundreds of Gondorians were hiking in clots up to the mountain glen that was our destination. It reminded me a little of the trek to Helm's Deep. Not as stressful, of course, and by no means as well organized. But it would still take us a couple of hours to get there.

Faramir and Éowyn were strolling in the front of our troop to enjoy the morning sunshine, the flower-scented breezes, and the pleasure of each other's company. Behind them, Beregond was lugging the carpet and the parchment sunscreen and I was carrying a couple of picnic baskets. Elric and Bergil darted back and forth to explore the trail—toting canvas bags into which I'd packed the unsquishables.

A little mountain stream was trickling alongside the trail, and the pattering leaves on the trees reminded me of the aspen in Colorado. Every now and again, a flabbergasted squirrel ran out on a tree branch to chatter at this astounding example of human migration. It would soon be summer—a summer that many of our fellow picnicgoers had thought that they would never live to see.

Beregond was dressed up in his new White Company uniform. It was sage with white flashes, and it looked swell on him. Of course he'd looked good in Tower Guard basic black, too.

Every now and again, Faramir and Éowyn would direct amused glances back at Beregond and me. They assumed we were already a done deal. It's a basic law of romantic relationships—no newly-formed couple can bear to see a man and a woman together without trying to matchmake them.

I matched my stride with Beregond and whispered, "Fair warning. Those two lovebirds are bound and determined to pair us up. You ought to beware."

Beregond waggled his dark eyebrows at me. "I am a Captain of Gondor, Barbarella. There are many things of which I must beware—but a pretty girl is not one of them."

After all that time in an alien culture, you'd think I would have gotten used to it—but I was still expecting Beregond to react like a gunshy American bachelor. Then again, as a widower, he would have his own expectations about women.

"Perhaps I ought to warn you," I whispered again, "that I can't cook and I can't sew. I'm not exactly prime housewife material."

The new Captain of the White Company simply shrugged. "I have been a soldier my whole life. War is all that I know. I have no knowledge of carpentry or of stonework. We will have to hire servants and tell them to take care of us like babies."

Was that some sort of stealth proposal? Beregond is a sweet guy, but he's no silver-tongued devil.


	36. Her Mother's Daughter

**Usual disclaimers and thanks**: Nothing is mine, etc., etc.

Thanks to my betas, eekfrenzy and Rose—and thanks also to my reviewers.

Reviews are my only reward. I like them a lot.

First off, eekfrenzy's illustrations of _Misfit in Minas Tirith_ can be viewed at http:/ / www. severalunlimited. com /barbarella/ (Close up the spaces-FFN scrubs out URLs.) I think her pictures of Serindë are fantastic and you get to see what Barbarella and her friends are supposed to look like. Also, eekfrenzy has some LOTR stories posted on FFN that I recommend and if you wanted to drop her a review she certainly wouldn't mind!

Well, this chapter is the end—it's been a long ride. If you have any remaining questions you can post them in a review and I'll try to answer them. Do keep an eye out for my next story. The current title is 'Fire in the East' but that may change.

Loads of thanks to my reviewers! Your comments mean more to me than I can say.

**Chapter 36: Her Mother's Daughter**

Our little 'troop' reached the site selected for King Elessar's event somewhere around noon. A black-and-white cloth pavilion had been set up for the King in a meadow dotted with yellow dandelions. To the left, you could look down the mountain and see the northern wall of the Rammas Echor. To the right, somebody had stacked several kegs of beer into a neat pyramid.

Prince Faramir indicated a small hillock about ten yards away from the King's pavilion. "Put our carpet over there." Beregond good-naturedly unrolled the carpet while I went over to the stream to fill our water jugs. Meanwhile, Elric and Bergil were running around and goofing off like the pair of normal kids that they were.

I was kneeling on the carpet to unpack a picnic basket when Elric ran up to me and gasped, "Barbarella! Barbarella! I just saw Fréalof! He's over there in the King's pavilion with the Elf lady! Look!"

At the front of his picnic pavilion, the King sat with his friends Legolas and Gimli on campstools. Aragorn was smoking the long pipe that I'd seen him use on the road to Helm's Deep. But Elric was right. In the shade of the pavilion, Elric's brother Fréalof was sitting at Arwen's feet.

"Éowyn! Prince Faramir!" I raised my voice just a little. "Didn't the King say that he was coming here to meet his subjects? Shouldn't we take him at his word and go over to meet him?"

"Why don't you and Beregond do that?" Faramir countered. He and Éowyn were squeezed close together under the parchment suncreen, and for one reason or another they didn't seem to want to move. He pointed out—reasonably enough—that if the Steward went over to speak to the King, it would look like a council meeting.

By that time Beregond knew me pretty well. He shot me a look of quickly-stifled anguish, but he picked up my picnic basket and followed me to the King's pavilion. The two boys scampered right behind us.

Beregond, of course, had no intention of speaking to his King until he was spoken to. For a second I wondered whether I might be pushing a bit too hard, but I decided to plow right along. I curtseyed and said breezily, "As you requested, Your Majesty, here we are to meet you."

Gimli slapped his knee and laughed at me. Even Legolas smiled a little. Aragorn bit down on the stem of his pipe and said sourly, "And you are the only ones to do so. Will none but the boldest of the bold come to speak to me?"

I decided to take that as a compliment. "What did you expect? Scary Elf warrior, scary Dwarf, scary new King."

"Then perhaps you can tell me what I should do to be less 'scary,'" Aragorn said with a sigh.

I shrugged. "How should I know? I'm a stranger here myself."

At that, the King's gimlet eye fastened upon Beregond. "Captain Beregond, you have lived in Minas Tirith all your life. What would you suggest?"

Beregond went red with embarrassment, but he didn't freeze or panic. His King had made a request of him and he would fulfill it or die. His gaze happened to fall upon his young son, who is truly the sun in his sky, and he stammered, "As you see, sire, my son Bergil does not fear your presence. I suggest that you ask your people to bring forward their children so that you may come to know them."

I could see the brownie points ticking off for Beregond in the King's head. For Aragorn, to think is to do, so he said right off, "That is a good idea, Captain. We will try it."

Without waiting another moment, he strode into the middle of the meadow with Beregond and Bergil trailing behind. After a brief whispered discussion, Beregond announced to the multitude in his best 'Citadel' voice, "People of Minas Tirith! Come forth with your sons and your daughters so that they may say for all their lives that they met the King Returned in the first days of his reign!"

And the people did! A stream of children was brought forward: liquid-eyed toddlers, little soldiers in short pants, and tiny princesses-in-training with ribbons in their hair. As the first trickle of people inched forward to greet their King, Gimli squinted over at Legolas and said, "D'ye think we ought to go with him, laddie? Or would we frighten the younglings?"

Legolas smirked at Gimli. "We can go, but it is likely that one of those children will pull your beard."

"I'm not afraid of a little tyke!" Gimli spluttered. He and Legolas soon joined the King out in the meadow. Gimli was a big hit, giving horsie rides to many a Gondorian toddler.

Actually, I think he's better at being a horse than at riding them.

From a blanket about ten yards away, Gandalf was smiling benignly. The four hobbits were clustered around him. Pippin and Merry were unpacking big picnic baskets that had to be filled with the most delicious foodstuffs Sam Gamgee could prepare and Sam himself was sitting next to Frodo. Occasionally Sam would nudge Frodo and point at something, and Frodo would smile a little. I was tempted to swing over to say 'hi', but that wouldn't have been very nice. Frodo actually seemed to be enjoying himself, and what could I have offered him but a reminder of the worst hour in his life?

Besides, I hadn't said 'hi' yet to Fréalof, and he was sitting not twelve feet behind me. Elric's brother really did seem to be getting better. The pink weals on his face were a lot less puffy, and his hair was growing back in a fuzzy fringe. But what had he been doing while I was otherwise occupied? Fréalof was sitting at Arwen's feet dressed in the black-and-silver livery of Gondor!

Elric, who was right beside him, yelled, "Come on over, Barbarella! Don't you want to meet Lady Arwen?"

Since he put it so nicely, how could I refuse?

Well. How can I describe Arwen Evenstar? Practically perfect in every way—her hair, her skin, her smile. If she had an advanced degree too I would just have to curl up and die. Lady Arwen made the little tuffet that she was seated on look like a royal throne. She had a filigree tiara in her hair and she was wearing clothing in various royal shades of purple. Aragorn and his buds must have appropriated all the other chairs, because Elric and Fréalof were perched on large tasseled pillows beside her.

I took four medium strides across the carpet and then froze, unsure of what to do next. What's the correct protocol when you meet the King's fiancée? Lady Arwen took pity on me and sat me down on another one of those pillows.

"So you are Fréalof's Captain Barbarella. The King has told me much about you. He said that you were a healer at the Battle of Helm's Deep."

I shook my head in negation, more from embarrassment than modesty. "Umm… no. I'm no healer. I just find ways to encourage the people who are. Like Captain Haldir, when I asked him to help Fréalof."

From the suppressed laughter in Arwen's eyes, I'd guess that the 'Barbarella story' would be buzzing around Haldir's head for the next millennium or so. But she said seriously, "I am very glad that you did! Fréalof's burns were terrible when he was brought to Rivendell. I helped my father to care for him and over the past few weeks I have also been teaching him to speak the common language."

Fréalof had been watching us both with bright eyes. He sat up proudly on his pillow and said, "I feel much better now, Barbarella. I was able to ride all the way here with Lady Arwen." And he said that in Westron! I was so impressed.

Arwen picked up a stoneware urn and said to Fréalof, "Bring me water, please." As if it was an order he was accustomed to, Fréalof pulled himself out of the pillow, smoothed down his new livery, and accepted the urn from Arwen's hands. With Elric at his side, he sedately carried it out of the pavilion.

Once the two boys were gone, Arwen confided to me, "I would like Fréalof to become my page. The children of men have never been a part of my life, but he has touched my heart. I wish to watch over him until his healing is complete. But he is a boy of Rohan. Do you think Princess Éowyn will object?"

"I shouldn't think she'd have a problem with it," I replied noncommittally. I wasn't so sure about Fréalof. A page is sort of a male handmaiden, which isn't everybody's cup of tea. I'd had some issues with it myself—and Fréalof had dreamed of becoming a proud Rider of Rohan.

While I was worrying about Fréalof's job prospects, Arwen said, "The King also told me about the jewel that you wear. He says that it resembles the Evenstar that I gave to him."

Was I supposed to return the necklace, now that I'd finished my Quest? Giving up my 'Universal Translator' would be a wrench, that was for sure.

For what might be the very last time, I pulled up the chain that was always around my neck and brought my silver-and-topaz pendant out of hiding. As it dangled and spun before her, Arwen gazed at it pensively and said nothing. Finally I prompted her, "You know, Aragorn wasn't the only person that I showed this to."

Arwen's eyes were deep silent pools. "Yes? And who were the others?"

"Well, there was Gandalf. He said that the necklace wasn't made in Middle-earth. Then Captain Haldir told me that it was Elvish work, but that I should keep it. And Serindë told me that it was called the Northstar, and that it belonged to Galadriel."

Arwen turned her eyes from the Northstar and looked over at me—but what she was thinking, I couldn't tell. "Yes, it is the Northstar. Serindë was my mother's handmaiden. She would know."

"Serindë also said that it was the Northstar that pulled me out of my world and dumped me here in Middle-earth. She wasn't quite sure why Galadriel would want to do that."

Arwen sighed. "Galadriel keeps her own counsel. There are few to whom she reveals her plans, and I am not one of them. You were brought here from another world? That is…remarkable."

Remarkable? That's one way of putting it. It really wasn't Arwen's fault—but I was mad. "It was certainly a surprise to me! I woke up one morning and found myself in the middle of a warzone. I survived and I think I've done all right, but the fact is, Galadriel marooned me in an alien world. Because of her, I'll never see my home or my mother again."

For whatever reason, my words really touched Arwen. I could see it in her stricken face. "The world has changed, but my grandmother still has power. It may be that she can return you from whence you came."

Right, that would be nice. To the snow or to the fire?

"I've been given reason to believe that can't happen," I said grimly. "I'm stuck here—forever."

This was one of those unanswerable statements. Lady Arwen didn't even try to answer it. Fortunately, Elric and Fréalof came back from their errand before the silence got too unbearable. Elric was bounding as usual but Fréalof was shuffling his feet on the carpet and clasping the stoneware urn as tightly as it were a priceless artifact.

Arwen held up a pair of silver cups. "Water, please. For me and my guest."

Her words were in Westron, of course, but Fréalof seemed to understand them. He carefully tipped the urn to pour—first for Arwen, and then for me. When he bent to fill my cup I asked softly in Rohirric, "Will you be all right with this, Fréalof?"

His smile was so bright that his face practically glowed. "Oh, yes! I will serve the Lady Arwen and Elric will be Princess Éowyn's horsemaster. We can be together forever!"

Okay, then.

I sipped from the cup and wondered just when I'd gotten used to drinking water right out of a stream. When I finished, Arwen said, "I will be gone for a little while. I want to walk with Barbarella." Shooting me a sharp glance, she copied the Rohirric words I'd just spoken. "Will you be all right with this, Fréalof?"

Fréalof bobbed his head in reply. "Yes! I have my brother!"

These Elves are scary-smart.

I had no idea why Arwen wanted me as a walking companion, but I wasn't about to say no. We strolled out of the pavilion and surveyed the picnic grounds. There was a small open space in the center of the meadow where King Elessar and the children were becoming acquainted, but other than that, the place was packed. Everyone in Minas Tirith who could make it up Mount Mindolluin was sitting on the grass and drinking the King's beer. Nobles under fancy sunshades. Common folk dressed in their best to hike up a mountain. Even the ex-refugees, who'd dragged up any cloth they could find to sit on—in one case, a ragged black flag emblazoned with the Lidless Eye.

Lady Arwen stared out at this happy crush and shivered. "There are so many people! It is never like this in Rivendell. The crowd makes me feel stifled. Do you feel it too, Barbarella?"

I knew where she was coming from. "With me it's the night. Sometimes I go out after dark and I feel like the night is crushing me. The only light I can see is from the moon and the stars. Where I come from, the shop windows stay lit all night and there's a street lamp at every corner."

Arwen considered this for a moment, then said softly, "We both must become accustomed to these things."

Fortunately, the Gondorians opened up a path when we walked into the crowd. I was prepared to straight-arm anybody who tried to get touchy-feely with Arwen, but nobody did. Everyone was gawking at the beautiful Elf Princess though—but funnily enough, a lot of people were staring at me too.

We passed a group of dark-skinned merchants who were swigging from winebottles instead of drinking the King's free beer, and one of them winked at me! It was Lorkan. On impulse, I raised my skirt above the tops of my half-boots and let him see my sunflower stockings.

We kept walking until we reached the end of the glen. Where the walls of the valley converged, the beginning of our stream was tumbling from a narrow cleft. As far as I could see, there was nowhere to go from there. A blue rock wall stretched nearly straight up on one side, and on the other I saw a steep eroded slope where the trees thinned into scraggly bushes and rocks. "This looks like the end of the road, Arwen. Shall we go back?"

Arwen had bent down to cup water in her hand, but she straightened up and pointed to those rocks and bushes. "I can see an old path that goes up the mountain. I wish to follow it until we find a place that is quiet and secluded."

Was mountain climbing on Arwen's agenda? It would definitely be the most challenging part of the day's hike. I don't usually take on serious mountains without a professional guide and we weren't dressed for climbing. Neither of us was wearing pants, and Arwen's mauve silk gown and wine velvet overdress didn't look that sturdy.

But Arwen was determined, and I couldn't let her try this slope without a climb buddy. Maybe I could talk her into coming back down after half an hour or so.

Yeah, sure.

It turned out that our hike up Mindolluin wasn't as bad as I'd feared. Arwen's path must have started out as a goat track or something—it meandered around every tree, boulder, and rain gully on the slope. We didn't make much altitude but we weren't clinging to the rocks either—although I did have to grab a few handholds from time to time.

For a while I wondered why King Elessar's security people hadn't followed us out of the glen, and then I remembered that his security people were Rangers. I tried to spot man-shaped shadows behind the larger trees, but I never did.

For the most part, it was a pleasant climb. Butterflies with bright blue wings flitted from golden flower to golden flower and once I spotted a dove's nest in a fir tree. The wildlife that I was mostly concerned about, though, was snakes. I was wearing leather half-boots but you can't be too careful. For most of our hike, Arwen didn't say much except, "Do not place your foot on that stone, it is unsteady," or "Take my hand and step up," or even "Put on your cloak. The winds are cold."

We finally reached an appropriate 'place'—a gigantic limestone boulder thrusting well out from the face of Mount Mindolluin. Stepping onto the rock, we tacitly agreed that the climb was over. Arwen was looking much less stressed; I felt a little chilly. I'd brought along my elven cloak—if you're used to mountains you expect sudden weather changes.

The limestone rock made an impressive overlook. Below us, the White City gleamed like alabaster. It was truly the Eternal City of this world. Beyond its walls, the Pelennor Fields were blackened by fire, but the wounds of war would soon heal, and the farmers would plant crops again. From where we were standing I couldn't see the Anduin, but I knew there were tall ships docked in the harbor and that the homes of the people of Harlond still stood. "Homes can be rebuilt," yes, but this time they wouldn't have to be.

After a time Arwen spoke. "I have touched living water and I have walked among the rocks and the trees. I can see mountains veiled with purple shadows and far off, a waterfall shining like a star. I can hear the mighty river that flows to a Sea I shall never cross. I needed to come here, Barbarella. I needed to know the wilderness that abides in this land. For I shall be Gondor's Queen and I could not love this kingdom if all that I knew of it were things built by hands."

I looked down again and tried to see the landscape from Arwen's perspective. While I was looking, she asked me, "How did Serindë die?"

"She used Glorfindel's enchantment. Didn't the King tell you?"

"I know that she made Glorfindel's choice." Arwen's beautiful face was somber. "But she was my mother's companion for longer than you can imagine, and I would know how she faced her death."

After all those elven years, it was a mortal stranger who had shared the last secrets of Serindë's life. Sometimes life's funny that way. "You know that she wanted to strike down Sauron more than anything."

"She made that very clear," Arwen said tonelessly. "For hundreds of years."

"In the end, Serindë was happy with her choice. She said to me once that if an Elf lacked the courage to pursue her heart's desire, then what was the use in having a long life?" My voice caught a little, because it still hurt to think about it. "She told me that she would go to Valinor to be with Princess Celebrían. And after she died, a mist rose from her body and went west."

Arwen stared down at the landscape below and then said without meeting my eyes, "Did Serindë mention that I too was riding in my mother's party when she was captured?"

That was another one of those unanswerable questions.

"Serindë loved my mother and would have done anything for her, but her choice to dedicate her life to vengeance was wrong. She gave up her life long ago," Arwen said sadly. "I grieved for my mother and my heart broke when she left us, but I would not allow myself to be consumed by grief."

Then Arwen turned to face me and gave me that 'look of eagles.' "Nor should you, Barbarella! Keep the Northstar, for it may be of use to you. But do not eat up your life yearning for the ones you have lost, for there are many here who love you as well. You cannot be always torn in two."

That was the truth—I knew it. I'd known that truth for some time. Suddenly all the feelings that I'd shoved aside for months struck me in a giant wave. I wanted to cry, but I found that I had no tears left.

"But it's so hard, Arwen, it's so hard! I know that my Mom's out there somewhere, but I'll never get to see her again. I won't even be able to tell her that her sci-fi stories worked out for me after all."

Arwen grasped my hand and held it tight. "I too shall never see my mother again. I have chosen a mortal life, and so my people and I shall be parted until the End of Days. For when an Elf dies, her spirit goes to Valinor, but where a mortal's spirit departs to, no one knows."

The wind echoed around us and for a long while neither of us spoke.

At the very edge of our limestone outlook, a little sapling was clinging to the rock and bravely flowering in the cold. Arwen plucked a single white flower from it and threaded the flower into her hair.

"We have lost much," she said, "but it is now our task to seek out all the good that remains to be found."

I didn't have to tell Arwen anything. She knew.

People had to be wondering where we'd gone to and our lunches were waiting for us down in the meadow. I pulled Serindë's beautiful warm cloak around my body and took a deep breath.

"Well, let's go back."

THE END


End file.
